Look Behind You (The Order of the Silver Star) (4 page)

When the Paris Gestapo swiped—er, confiscated—the books while Chris was out of his quarters, he stifled a smirk and sent a message to London requesting that the BBC start airing
The Lone Ranger
. It wasn’t very much more accurate than the Old Shatterhand stories, but hey, at least Tonto was an actual Apache name, even if the character wasn’t.

The request was denied, however. England was suffering heavily under the Blitz, and the BBC felt it needed to focus on British content, not American imports. Chris was annoyed, but he did understand. Instead, he settled for humming the William Tell Overture at appropriate moments while advising Goering on which types of planes to withdraw from the
Luftangriff
—namely, moments when he suspected SS agents were listening in.

The SS was twitchy, had been since the meeting with the Mexican consul, but it got worse as September rolled on without any sign of capitulation from the Brits. More than once in the first part of October, Chris walked past a bomb silo and felt a wave of malice coming from it that made his hair stand on end, and a couple of those occasions coincided with SS inspections of those same silos. But while he did believe in God and in good and evil, he didn’t believe in magic. It seemed incredible that the SS would be trying to practice black magic, never mind that they would actually believe that the Rangers were in England trying to thwart them. Chris enjoyed rattling their chain, but he had a hard time taking any of it seriously. Goering certainly wasn’t; he was more worried about the mundane fact that planes and pilots were dropping like flies at the hands of the RAF. Why should magic even be a factor?

Once Hitler called off the daily bombing of London and postponed Operation Sea Lion until spring, tensions eased around Goering’s office, though no one except Chris was happy about the Brits’ refusal to give in or the extremely high losses of men and planes on the Luftwaffe side. Goering assigned Chris to the task of analyzing what had gone wrong, and life went more or less back to pre-Blitz normal. Chris was so busy with his report and figuring out what inaccuracies to slip in that he almost forgot about the SS and their crazy paranoia about the Rangers.

Nimrod evidently hadn’t, however, because when Chris accompanied Goering back to Berchtesgaden at the end of November, Nimrod pulled him aside. “Meet me at the Rathskeller tonight, will you, Eric?” he asked. “I’ve still got that five Marks I owe you.”

Five Reichsmarks—a
cinco peso
, the Mexican coin used by the old-time Rangers to make their silver badges. Chris nodded. “Sure, Onkel Johann. See you tonight.”

Nimrod clapped a hand on Chris’ shoulder and moved on.

#####

3
Oberst
was the
Heer
(German army) equivalent of a colonel.

#####

~~~~~

Chapt
er 2

Uncanny

November 28, 1940

For the rest of the day, Chris kept his eyes and ears peeled for any clues as to what Nimrod might need to talk to him about regarding the Rangers. What he heard was a lot of talk about invading the Soviet Union, and what he saw were a lot of astrological charts that he didn’t bother to try to decipher and a dictator hopped up on Dr. Morell’s vaunted Vitamultin. Stifling his qualms, Chris gave his report on the Blitz and answered Hitler’s questions as tactfully as possible. And when it became apparent that Hitler wasn’t going to accept any negative assessment of the Luftwaffe’s ability to participate in the attack on the Soviets, Chris disclaimed that intel on Russia wasn’t his field but agreed that with enough time, the Luftwaffe could be ready. Then he refused to give estimates, and Hitler wasn’t pleased, but at least he wasn’t mad enough to have Chris arrested.

Chris escaped to Königssee as soon as he could. The Rathskeller was fairly deserted that night, but Nimrod already had a table with a beer waiting for Chris when he arrived. After the initial exchange of pleasantries, Chris drank gratefully. “I needed that,” he said quietly in English.

“Bad day?” Nimrod returned sympathetically.

Chris groaned. “Himself is determined to play Auburn at Alabama, come hell or high water.” College football wasn’t an established code, but he and Nimrod had used it a time or two on the fly, and he reckoned Nimrod could figure out what he meant as far as War Eagle and Crimson Tide.

Nimrod nodded. “Yes, I know. That’s the problem. He needs more players than he has, and neither the free agent market nor the draft market gives him enough options. And he can’t cancel the Arizona State game, either. He has canceled the game against William and Mary, but he’s still worried that Sul Ross will turn up on the schedule. Having nightmares over it, as a matter of fact.”

Chris blinked. Arizona State had to mean North Africa, and William and Mary meant England, but Sul Ross Normal School… was named after a Ranger captain, of course. Sheesh. “So what, he’s pulling out of the Orange Bowl?”

“Not entirely.” Nimrod lowered his voice further and dropped the code. “You’ve heard talk of the Atlantic Wall?”

“Yeah, some talk of getting the Horseman’s road crew to do it.” Really, there wasn’t another company in Germany aside from Organisation Todt that was capable of such an undertaking, and they did have experience; they’d already done the Autobahn and the
Westwall
. “Didn’t think they were planning to start it for another couple of years yet.”

“They’re starting it next year, but not with the Horseman, and it won’t be literal. Himself wants enchantments.”

“… You’re joking.”

Nimrod shook his head. “Wish I were, old bean.”

“A wall of
enchantments
to guard the western coast. Himself has lost his cotton-pickin’ mind.”

“The warlocks have been over it. They think it can work, and they’ll be testing it with glamours to divert attention from the buildup in the east.”

“How is that any sort of test?”

“They’re working off the oldest and strongest forms they can find, spells no one’s tried for a thousand years.”

“So what the Sam Hill makes them think it’ll work?”

Nimrod shrugged.

“…
Will
it work?”

Nimrod shrugged again. “I suppose we’ll have to start from the assumption that it will, at least enough to be dangerous. They did manage to enspell Emil Hácha.”

Chris frowned. “I thought that was the speedballs or whatever the hell the Injection Master gives Himself.”

“Well, yes, that brought him around and brought on the heart attack. But the delaying tactic wasn’t only to wear him down physically. It’s only a light thrall now, but if he keeps fighting it, I suspect Himself will send Iron-heart and his mage in.”

“
You
have lost your cotton-pickin’ mind.” Heydrich was a menace, sure, and he’d murder the Czechs given half a chance, but Chris simply couldn’t believe all this mumbo-jumbo about thralls and mages and whatnot.

“Don’t scoff so. It’s not only our lads that I’m worried about. This kind of magic, if it works, is every bit as deadly as poison gas to body, mind, and soul. Anyone could be hurt by it—those who fight it, those who must live under it, even those who wield it.”

“The warlocks? Why the hell should we care about them?”

Nimrod raised an eyebrow. “They, too, must face God’s judgment. Sometimes mercy requires stopping your enemy before he can destroy himself too completely.”

Chris snorted.

Nimrod leaned closer. “Lad, you have
no notion
of the plans I’m fighting to derail. Millions of lives will be lost if we don’t stop this war as soon as we possibly can. Himself wants to
wipe out
the Slavs and the Jews, as if they were so many cockroaches. Have you any idea the toll it would take on the soul of Germany even to attempt such a thing? This nation would never fully recover. And your very American grandchildren would still face the taunt that all Germans are Nazis.”

That last remark made Chris wince. The Schneiders had lived near Castell since its founding in 1847, but he and Matt had still gotten flak from Anglos in school during the last war because they were German and spoke the language at home. Nimrod was right; he didn’t want to risk another generation facing the same discrimination. “Okay. What do you need me to do?”

Nimrod handed him a roll of microfilm wrapped in a five-Mark note. “Get this to an agent at the lighthouse in Dunkirk; his codename’s Cuchulain. He’s got contacts who can analyze it. And tell London we may need Hamer after all.”

“Cuchulain, got it. Recognition code?”

“‘The mighty hunter seeks his hound.’”

“And when does it all launch?”

“As soon as possible. Which probably means June for the invasion, possibly a month or two before that for the spells.”

Chris nodded once. “I’m on it.”

And he steadfastly ignored the way his hand prickled around the microfilm he was clutching as he went back to his car.

*****

Two weeks passed before Chris could get leave to go to Dunkirk. He kept the microfilm on him during that time, fearing that any hiding place might prove insecure. And the frequency with which the SS searched his quarters did increase, so the plan turned out to be smart. He didn’t touch the film if he could help it, though. Nimrod hadn’t warned him about that, but somehow he just knew that the less skin contact he made with the film, the better. As it was, his palm itched constantly from where he’d held it, and no matter where he stashed the film, it felt like it was trying to burn through his clothes and into his skin.

This notion of dark magic being real was starting to sound a lot less far-fetched.

But he didn’t give in to the urge to throw the film away or leave it someplace unguarded, and he didn’t give in to the urge to open the film and find out what the hell was on it. He had one job: delivering the film to Cuchulain. Until that job was done, he would grit his teeth and keep it safe and unread.

The wait was sheer torture, however, and it was all he could do not to cry in relief when his weekend pass was finally approved. Then he had to fight the urge to speed from Paris to Dunkirk; the drive only took three hours, and his desire to run far, far away from this damned microfilm couldn’t take precedence over his need not to attract attention. But he made it in good time and in one piece, and he was cautious in getting from his hotel to the lighthouse. Once there, he used a coded knock to announce his arrival.

The door opened a crack. “Yes?” prompted a male voice.

“The mighty hunter seeks his hound,” Chris replied quietly in English.

The door opened further, revealing a burly, red-haired, freckle-faced Irishman who was about the same height as Chris. “And you are?”

“Hercules. You Cuchulain?”

“That I am.” Cuchulain’s emerald eyes looked out past Chris to check for a tail before he stepped aside to let Chris enter the lighthouse and closed the door behind him. “Care for a spot o’ tea, or something stronger?”

Chris drew a deep breath and managed a smile. “Uh, no, thanks. Unless your ‘something stronger’ is from Shiner—I’ve been dyin’ for a good Texas beer.”

Cuchulain laughed. “No, sorry, I’ve no taste for aught but Guinness.”

“Well, then, I’ll pass. Guinness is good, though. Tried it in London.”

“Ah. Well, now, what can I do for ye?”

“Nimrod told me to get this to you.” Chris fished the microfilm out of its latest hiding place. “The High Command is starting to make plans to attack the Soviet Union, but Hitler doesn’t want to leave France undefended. So sometime between now and June, we think, the SS is planning to set up some kind of system of defensive enchantments to prevent any possible invasion.”

Cuchulain held out one gloved hand, and Chris placed the microfilm in it. A wave of relief swept over him—but Cuchulain’s eyes went wide as he looked at the film and cursed in Irish. “What the devil are ye givin’ me this for?” he asked as he looked up at Chris again, then hesitated. “A-aside from Nimrod’s orders, I mean.”

“We don’t know if the plan’s going to work. Nimrod says you’ve got contacts who can analyze that… whatever the hell it is.”

“Er—that I do, but—Lord save us, whatever are they afraid of? Sure and they can’t think….”

“No, they’re not worried about the Brits. Look, there’s one more piece of the message: Frank Hamer sent a message to King George last year. Tell London we may need him after all.”

Cuchulain frowned. “Frank Hamer… Frank Hamer….”

“Formerly Senior Captain of the Texas Rangers.”

Cuchulain blinked. “Now, what on earth would they be calling him for?”

Chris sighed. “Get someone in London to explain it. I can’t stay too long.”

“Right, right, sorry. Thanks for this. I’ll be takin’ it off that way quick as a wink.”

“Thanks.” Chris started toward the door but paused with his hand on the handle and looked back at Cuchulain. “You… act like you know what that is. Mind telling me, just in general terms?”