On Her Majesty's Behalf (8 page)

Burke wanted some of the special magnetism grenades he'd used in the last mission, but Professor Graves hadn't had time to put them into standardized production yet. The ones he'd been given previously were all they had, and he'd used them during their escape from Verdun.

“ . . . and that's all I can tell you at this point,” Graves was saying, as Burke focused back on the conversation before him. The professor fielded a few questions from the team and then turned the discussion back over to Burke.

“All right, that's it for now,” Burke told them. “We'll be traveling by convoy to Le Havre at 1500, so use the time you have left to check your gear and write any letters you need to write. This time tomorrow you'll be in London.”

As Burke watched them file out of the room, he wondered how many were going to make it back again.

 

Chapter Ten

Imperial Palace

Berlin

J
UST A FEW
hundred miles from where Major Burke was gathered with his team, Manfred von Richthofen swept down the hall of the Imperial Palace, intent on reaching the Throne Room without delay. At his heels was a squad of
Geheime Volks,
the undead supersoldiers that his pet scientist, Dr. Eisenberg, had created with his unique blend of alchemy, occult arts, and science. The squad was commanded by Richthofen's adjutant, Leutnant Adler. All of them, including Richthofen, were armed, the soldiers with standard Mauser rifles, Adler and Richthofen with Luger pistols.

Richthofen knew his supersoldiers were quite a sight to those who had never encountered them before. Their crisp black uniforms and black jackboots were designed to be intimidating and had the added benefit of making the black veins pulsing beneath their sallow skin stand out in sharp relief. The gleam of madness in their eyes and the guns in their hands were enough to send the palace staff scurrying out of the way at the first sight of them.

Of course, he was no picture of perfection himself, he knew. The time he'd spent rotting on the battlefield before his first resurrection had left him with a gaping hole in the left side of his face, his teeth and jawbone clearly visible through his now ravaged flesh. He had always considered himself an intimidating individual, but now he knew he was downright frightening to behold. That didn't bother him at all; fear was a useful tool when utilized properly.

He had come prepared to deal with some resistance from the palace staff, but so far his squad hadn't encountered any, much to his satisfaction. The guards at the front gate, and then again those stationed at the doors of the palace itself, had let them in without hesitation. Perhaps even with a bit of eagerness. Nothing had been said about the weapons he and his men carried either, despite the fact that it was considered treason to bring firearms into the palace, never mind into the kaiser's presence. From Richthofen's viewpoint, the message had been very clear; it was time for someone new to sit upon Germany's throne and the guards' inactivity was tacit approval of his claim to that position.

They turned a corner and there, at the end of the hall, was the entrance to the Throne Room where the kaiser was having lunch with his senior advisers. Another pair of guards stood watch outside these doors as well. The younger of the two, a corporal, stepped forward, positioning himself between the Throne Room and the oncoming visitors.

Richthofen's eyes narrowed at the sight and he was about to raise his hand in a signal for Leutnant Adler to deal with the problem, when the other guard, an older sergeant, reached out and dragged the younger man to the side, out of Richthofen's way. When the corporal opened his mouth to protest, the sergeant clamped a hand firmly over it, cutting off whatever it was that he'd been about to say.

The squad closed the distance and formed up in front of the double doors to the Throne Room, preparing to make their entrance. Richthofen paused a moment before the guardsmen, head cocked to one side in amused interest. He eyed them one at a time, his gaze finally settling on the older of the two men.

“Is he going to be a problem?” the Baron asked. His voice was calm, unhurried, as if he'd been discussing the weather instead of a man's life.

From the way his voice shook, the sergeant did not miss the threat. “No, sir,” he replied. “He's newly promoted and eager to do a solid job, sir, that's all. He won't be a problem.”

There was a hint of similarity in the facial features of the two men and Richthofen correctly surmised that they were related
. Probably his sister's son,
he thought to himself idly.

The corporal mumbled something, but with the older man's hand over his mouth, Richthofen was unable to understand him. He waved the sergeant off.

Reluctantly, the older man let go and stepped back.

As soon as he was free, the corporal snapped to attention. “Corporal Manheim, at your ser­vice, Herr Richthofen!”

Richthofen eyed him for a long moment.

“At my ser­vice, you say?”

Over the corporal's shoulder, Richthofen saw the older man wince at the tone of Richthofen's voice, but the corporal had made his bed and would have to sleep in it now.

The younger man was oblivious to the silent exchange. “Yes, sir! For the glory of the empire, Herr Richthofen!”

Richthofen chuckled.
For the glory of the empire, indeed.
The young corporal had made his allegiance known at a most fortuitous time.

“Attend me, Corporal,” Richthofen ordered. “I have just the task for you.”

The corporal was practically beaming with pride at having been singled out in such a fashion and fell into step behind the German ace as he gave the signal to Leutnant Adler.

Adler turned, raised one booted foot, and then slammed it into the Throne Room doors. The flimsy locks holding them closed were no match for the enhanced strength of the undead soldier, and the doors sprang open with a crash. Adler's men had been lined up on either side of him and rushed into the room as soon as the entryway was breached, their weapons out and pointed at the men in the room just beyond.

Richthofen followed, with Corporal Manheim and Leutnant Adler at his heels.

The room was large and lavishly decorated with the kind of ostentatious display of wealth that normally disgusted Richthofen, but he barely noticed, for his attention was elsewhere.

The kaiser sat before a well-­laid table on the far side of the room, eating lunch with General Ludendorff, his quartermaster-­general, and Field Marshal Von Hindenburg, his chief of staff. All three men looked up in surprise as Richthofen's men crossed the room toward them.

“What's the meaning of this?” the kaiser demanded with as much bravado as he was able to summon at the sight of a dozen men pointing guns in his direction, but the quavering in his voice gave him away. The other two men didn't even do that much; they simply froze in place like deer trapped in a hunter's light. Richthofen wasn't sure which of the three he despised most.

The kaiser was weak; there was no questioning that fact. He'd had the opportunity to seize decisive control of the battlefield in the first few months of the war, but he'd surrounded himself with sycophants like Ludendorff and Von Hindenburg instead; men who would say whatever the kaiser wanted to hear, and as a result their greatest chance to squash the resistance of the Allies had been lost. Seven years of trench warfare with the two armies locked in a stalemate had been the result, and if things were left to continue as they were, Richthofen had no doubt that they would still be in the exact same place seven years from now as well.

Richthofen had hoped his bold attack on London and New York would provide the impetus needed to change the status quo. A strike at the heart of the Allied defense while they were still reeling with the destruction of those two great cities would have broken the back of the Allied line. Paris would have fallen and, with it, the rest of the Allied resistance on the Continent. Europe would have been theirs!

Rather than seizing the moment and exploiting the opportunity Richthofen had provided, the kaiser had instead done nothing.

It was time for a change.

As Richthofen stepped into view, the kaiser's eyes narrowed. “Richthofen! I should have known this was your doing.”

There was no love lost between the two men.

Richthofen ignored the kaiser's outburst, speaking more for the others in the room than for the three condemned men at the table in front of him.

“Friedrich Wilhelm Viktor Albert,” Richthofen began, addressing himself directly to the kaiser and refusing to give his ludicrous reign any further legitimacy by using titles, “I hereby charge you with treason, specifically with crimes against the ­people of Germany and against the empire itself. How do you plead?”

The look of confusion and abject fear that crossed Wilhelm's face at the word
treason
was like sweet ambrosia to the German ace. Even the lowliest private knew the penalty for treason in the German armed forces.

“Crimes against the empire? Treason?” Wilhelm blustered. “Have you lost your mind, Richthofen?”

Richthofen ignored the kaiser's response. “After due consideration of the facts before this tribunal, I find you guilty of treason and sentenced to execution by firing squad. Corporal Manheim?”

As the younger man stepped forward, Wilhelm began shouting at them both.

“Tribunal? What tribunal? You can't do this, Richthofen!” He turned to the soldiers standing around them and thrust a finger in Richthofen's direction. “I am the kaiser and I demand that you shoot this villainous bastard where he stands! Shoot him, I say!”

Richthofen's undead troops stared back at the kaiser, unmoved. It was clear where their allegiance lay.

Nervous sweat dotted Corporal Manheim's face as he stepped up next to Richthofen. “Sir?”

Without taking his gaze off the kaiser, Richthofen drew his sidearm and handed it to the young man.

“Carry out the sentence, please, Corporal.”

Manheim took the gun and, with trembling hands, pointed it in the kaiser's direction. Richthofen watched him closely, enjoying the mental and emotional strain he'd just placed on the other man. Humans were weak, just like the kaiser, and if Manheim wanted to be a part of Richthofen's new world order, he was going to have to prove his support for the new kaiser.

Starting with killing the old one.

The only question was whether he'd have the backbone to do it.

“What are you doing?” the kaiser shrieked at him, holding up his good hand as if to protect himself from the bullet to come. “I am the kaiser! Shoot him, not me! Shoot Richthofen!”

Manheim's entire body was shaking with the strain, the muzzle of the gun wavering but still pointed toward the kaiser. The corporal brought his other hand up and wrapped it around the first in an effort to hold the gun steady, but that just seemed to make it worse.

Beside him, Richthofen leaned in close and said, “I gave you an order, Corporal, didn't I?”

“Yes, sir,” Manheim gasped.

“Then what are you waiting for? Carry out the sentence.”

Richthofen leaned back, glancing past the corporal as he did so to catch Adler's gaze with his own. He gave a slight nod. In response, the leutnant changed his stance slightly so that he was now facing the corporal rather than the senior officers at the table.

Manheim huffed several times, trying to get up the nerve. For a moment, Richthofen thought he might find the courage, but then the man's head dropped to his chest in shame and he lowered his arms.

“I can't, sir,” he gasped.

Richthofen reached out and removed the gun from the young man's hands. “Leutnant Adler?”

Adler barked an order and the troops lined up in a semicircle around the table where the kaiser and his companions were having lunch and opened fire as one. The roar of their Mausers filled the room as bullets slammed into the three men at the table, making their bodies dance and jitter under the impact. Blood flew and the stench of cordite filled the air.

Richthofen watched it all with delight.

He let the shooting continue for another moment, then raised a hand, signaling the others to stop.

Wilhelm, Ludendorff, and Von Hindenburg were all slumped across the table, unmoving, their bodies covered in blood.

In the sudden silence Richthofen turned to Corporal Manheim, raised the pistol, and shot him in the head, splattering the soldier standing behind him with a mixture of blood, brains, and bone fragments.

As the corporal's body slumped at his feet, Richthofen handed the pistol to Adler.

The kaiser is dead,
thought Richthofen.
Long live the kaiser!

 

Chapter Eleven

Port of Le Havre

France

T
HE CONVOY
B
URKE
and the Marauders had been ordered to catch consisted of four two-­ton lorries packed full of salvaged scrap metal and a Model T Ford ambulance with several medical evacuees bound for the USS
Nightingale,
a hospital ship docked in Le Havre that would eventually take them back across the Atlantic and home to the States.

After arriving at the staging area, Burke checked in with the captain in charge of the convoy, offering to have his men take their turns at watch along the way. He knew the planned route would take them through Paris to Rouen and then on to Le Havre. At no time would they cross into German-­held territory, but they would be traveling very close to the front for much of the way and would most likely come under attack of one kind or another at some point. The captain was all too happy to add several more rifles to the convoy defense should they need them and stationed Burke and his men in the last two trucks in the group while consolidating his own men in the front vehicles. The vehicles were refueled, the wounded loaded aboard the Model T, and the convoy got under way reasonably close to the planned departure time.

As Burke and the convoy captain had feared, they were attacked twice while en route by German aircraft patrolling behind the lines. The first time it was by a lone Fokker D.VII biplane that must have been low on fuel, for it strafed the convoy just once before continuing on its way. The second time they were caught on the open road by a trio of aircraft, Albatroses, Burke thought, given their rounded tails, and took some heavy fire for several minutes before a pair of Sopwith Camels turned up and chased the German fighters off. Having come under fire from a determined fighter pilot in the past, Burke knew they got away pretty easily.

Night had fallen by the time they reached the city. They said their good-­byes to the convoy crew and headed for the docks. Once there, Burke sent the men over to the enlisted mess while he slipped into the officers' club to try to track down their contact, Captain Wattley.

It took a few tries, but eventually Burke was directed to berth number eighteen. He headed in that direction, expecting to find another fishing trawler like the one that had taken him to Southend-­on-­Sea just a few days before, and was shocked upon arrival to find a submarine bobbing gently in the waters at the end of the dock, a British flag flying over it. Two sailors stood guard duty at the end of the gangplank leading to the deck of the submarine and they watched him cautiously as he approached.

“I'm looking for Captain Wattley,” Burke told them.

One of the guards looked him over for a moment, then said, “Wait here,” and disappeared up the gangplank and through the hatch.

The other guard wasn't the talkative type, replying to Burke's inquiries with one-­word responses, so after a few attempts at conversation Burke moved to one side and shook out a cigarette to smoke while he waited. He'd just about finished when the guard returned, this time with a lieutenant in tow.

“Major Burke? Lieutenant Sanders, HMS
Reliant
.”

The two men shook hands.

“I'm Captain Wattley's executive officer. The captain is asleep at the moment; it's his off-­shift. Can I help you with something?”

“Sorry to spring this on you unannounced, Lieutenant, but I'm afraid you're going to have to go wake the old man up. I've got sealed orders for him and him alone and we're on a bit of a timetable on this one.”

The lieutenant didn't look happy, but he didn't have much choice in the matter. Sanders led Burke up the gangplank, across the deck, and over to the conning tower hatch from which Sanders had emerged moments before. With a warning to watch his head, Sanders led him below.

Burke had never been aboard a submarine before, and the tight quarters were the first thing he noticed. It was hard not to when the ceiling seemed to press down from above and the walls felt closer than he knew they actually were. He couldn't imagine being trapped inside this contraption with thousands of pounds of pressure pushing in on it from the outside; the thought made him claustrophobic.

Sanders slipped past the crew members working around them and led Burke to a bulkhead door at the back of the room. He knocked and then slipped inside the door, leaving Burke standing there alone under the curious eyes of the crew for several minutes. Eventually Sanders stepped back out and gestured for Burke to go on in.

The room was tiny and clearly served two purposes, if the radio he glimpsed behind the captain's hammock was any indication. Captain Wattley turned out to be a slim, narrow-­faced man with a shaved head and the bushiest set of eyebrows Burke had ever seen. He stood next to his hammock, a cup of coffee in hand, and glowered at Burke.

“What's this about, Major?”

Burke didn't say anything, just took the envelope containing their sealed orders from inside his uniform shirt and handed it over.

Wattley tore it open and read the orders it contained, his scowl deepening as he did so.

“Is this a joke?” he asked finally, when he was finished.

Burke did his best to hold on to his temper. So far the reception he'd received had been less than stellar. He wondered if the man had a thing against the Yanks.
Would explain his behavior, at least . . .

“I'm not privy to what your orders say, Captain, but I have my own and I assure you that this is not a joke. Far from it, in fact.”

Wattley stared at him for a moment and then stepped to where a talking box was bolted to the wall beside his bed. Picking up the receiver, he spun the crank several times to build up a charge and then pressed the red button on the front of the base. He waited a moment until someone picked up on the other end and then said, “Get me Davis at the Admiralty, Lieutenant.”

Burke stood by politely while the other man waited for the connection to be made and then spent several minutes arguing with whoever was on the other end of the line about the orders he'd just received. That someone must have pushed the issue higher up the chain of command, though, for Wattley's attitude underwent an abrupt change a few minutes later, his speech suddenly interspersed with short silences followed by several “Yes, sir”s and “Of course, sir”s. When at last he hung up the phone, his attitude was noticeably improved.

“It seems that my boat and I are at your disposal, Major. I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what this is all about?”

“What did the Admiralty say?”

“Just that this is a highly classified mission and that I am to take you to London as quickly as possible.”

Burke had no doubt that the mission would go much more smoothly if the captain's assistance was given willingly, so he decided to trust the man and give him a little more information.

“My men and I have been tasked with rescuing several individuals from the heart of London. We need you and your boat to take us as far up the Thames as possible. Getting us all the way to the Westminster Bridge would be ideal, but if you can't make that, then the Waterloo or Blackfriars Bridge will have to do. Any farther east of that point and we probably won't live long enough crossing the city to reach our objective.”

From the look of surprise on the captain's face it was obvious that he hadn't expected Burke to answer him and the extension of trust seemed to go a long way, just as Burke had hoped. The captain's annoyance was greatly mitigated as he turned his full attention to dealing with the issue at hand.

“Normally we'd have no problem making Westminster Bridge,” he told Burke. “The river's deep enough to carry us through the city and out the other side for that matter when the tide is high. But that was before the Germans tried to bomb us back into the Stone Age. Who knows what's in the water at this point?”

The captain pulled a chart from a nearby shelf and spread it out on his desk. He stared at it for a moment, his fingers tracing the course of the river as it made its way through the heart of the city, and then looked up at Burke.

“If the bridges are intact, we should be fine.” He paused, glanced at the map, and then up again at Burke. “Are the bridges intact?” he asked.

“Reconnaissance photos show the London, Southwark, Millennium, and Blackfriars Bridges to be undamaged. The Westminster Bridge has taken some hits, but appears to be mainly intact as well. We're less certain of the Waterloo and Hungerford Bridges, however, as smoke from a large fire burning out of control in South Bank has obscured every attempt we've made to get a decent look at them.”

“Nothing to do but wait and see then,” Wattley said. “I'll get you as close as I can, you can rest assured of that.”

Burke nodded; he'd expected as much.

“How many men are we talking about?” the sub captain asked.

“Eight. Myself, plus seven others.”

“And for the return?”

Burke shrugged. “Unknown. Might be one. Might be a dozen or more. We really won't know until we get there.”

He could see by Wattley's face that he didn't care for that answer, but there wasn't much Burke could do about it. Drummond had reported that the party had consisted of the King, the Queen, and fifteen soldiers when he'd been sent for help. But that had been days ago; there was just no way of knowing how many had survived at this point.

The submarine captain must have worked that out for himself, for he shrugged and said, “Good enough, I guess. Let's just hope they don't expect first-­class accommodations.”

Burke was certain they'd be too thrilled at being rescued to care and said as much.

“I suppose you've got that right, Major,” Wattley said with a laugh. “You know, you should feel right at home here.”

“Really? Why's that?”

“The
Reliant
's an H class submarine, built by you Yanks in the Quincy Navy Yard outside of Boston.”

“Good old American engineering, is that what you're telling me?”

Wattley shrugged. “She hasn't let me down yet,” he said, with a grin.

Burke very carefully avoided mentioning that there was a first time for everything.

The captain didn't notice Burke's hesitation. “Ever been aboard a submarine, Major?”

“Can't say that I've had the pleasure.”

“Well, then, how about a quick tour while we make the necessary arrangements to get your men aboard and squared away?”

“Sounds good to me,” Burke replied, thinking the more he knew, the better chance of survival they all would have should something go wrong.

They left the radio room and stepped back into the control room. Lieutenant Sanders glanced in their direction, but Wattley waved him off with a quick shake of his head and led Burke to the right, toward the aft section of the boat.

“The
Reliant
's one hundred seventy-­one feet long, with a beam of just over fifteen feet. We're slightly smaller than the older E class subs, which makes us a bit more maneuverable when we need to be, especially in tight quarters.”

Burke stiffened; he hadn't even thought about maneuverability, particularly within the confines of the Thames. A mental image popped into his head of the bulkhead in front of him tearing open as the boat ran hard aground deep beneath the surface of the river and he could almost hear the shouts and cries of the wounded as the water began to pour into the compartment . . .

Focus, Burke, focus.

“This here's the main battery compartment and crew accommodations. Since my men will be at their posts during the run across the Channel, your men can use this compartment for the passage,” Wattley told him.

Burke nodded; the space looked like it would be more than adequate for their purposes. After all, there wasn't much for them to do but sit around and wait for Wattley and his men to take them to their destination. Hopefully the
Reliant
's fate would turn out better than that of the
Victorious,
the British airship that had ferried the Marauders across the lines into German-­held territory in eastern France just a few weeks before.

That had not ended well,
Burke remembered, with a rueful shake of his head.

Just beyond the battery compartment was the engine room. Looking in through the hatch, Burke saw a burly chief directing several sailors as they stripped the covers from two large engines, one on either side of the compartment.

Wattley pointed in their direction. “The boys there are giving our electric motors a final once-­over and should be done within the hour. The motors deliver 160 horsepower each and provide us with nine knots of speed when we're submerged.”

Burke did the math in his head and realized that nine knots was only about ten miles per hour. Not all that fast, but he supposed speed was less of an issue when you were down deep beneath the waves where no one could see you.