Grudge: Operation Highjump Read online

  by

  Brian Parker

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Notice: The views expressed herein are NOT endorsed by the United States Government, Department of Defense or Department of the Army.

  GRUDGE

  Copyright © 2017 by Brian Parker

  All rights reserved. Published by Phalanx Press.

  www.PhalanxPress.com

  Edited by Aurora Dewater

  Cover art designed by Bukovero

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  Works available by Brian Parker

  GRUDGE ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B06Y5QS6J6

  Easytown Novels

  The Immorality Clause ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01HWOH1VC

  Tears of a Clone ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01NBDUZSH

  The Path of Ashes

  A Path of Ashes ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00XATPU9E

  Fireside ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B015ONZOU8

  Dark Embers ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01CPSAI1A

  Washington, Dead City

  GNASH ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01ACTBBZQ

  REND ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01AYEQRUI

  SEVER ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B01C7VEMG2

  Stand Alone Works

  Enduring Armageddon ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00XZA2UQY

  Origins of the Outbreak ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00MN7UFBW

  The Collective Protocol ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00KUZDY4O

  Battle Damage Assessment ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00PCND2RI

  Zombie in the Basement ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00H6DUXY2

  Self-Publishing the Hard Way ~ www.amazon.com/dp/B00HNQCZ9I

  Anthology Contributions

  Bite-Sized Offerings: Tales and Legends of the Zombie Apocalypse

  Only the Light We Make: Tales From the World of Adrian’s Undead Diary

  ONE

  30 April 1945

  Berlin, Germany

  Gunfire echoed across the night as the two soldiers dug frantically with the small folding shovels they’d taken from dead men. The Ivans were so close that they could hear the reports of individual weapons. It wouldn’t be long before they arrived at the Chancellery itself and they’d give their lives to defend the Führer.

  The soil was harder to dig through than either of them had anticipated, but they’d finally managed to excavate the shallow pit in the garden. Then, the whistling sound of incoming Soviet projectiles drowned out the shooting, forcing the men to dive for cover. The ground shook beneath the prostrate soldiers’ bodies as artillery shells slammed into the city around them

  When the shelling ended, the sergeant ordered the other man to bring the body while he prepared wood for the fire. They moved quickly about their tasks, the private unceremoniously dumping the body of a woman from a wheelbarrow onto a shallow layer of split wood in the pit.

  The men built a small pyre on top of her body before pouring ten liters of the Wehrmacht’s precious petrol on her broken, nude body. The heavy bruising across her body told Oberjäger Mueller that she’d likely been pulled from a collapsed building for this purpose. Everything would be examined, so she needed to seem as whole as possible, he mused, eying the private deviously.

  Neither of them knew who the woman was, or whether her family even knew that her body had been removed from the wreckage. They knew they were to burn the woman beyond recognition and that there were to be no witnesses, which was easy enough since most of the soldiers were forward, in defensive positions around the Chancellery.

  Mueller bent down and crammed two cyanide capsules into the woman’s throat and then used the spout from the petrol can to force them as far down her throat as possible. If they performed an in-depth investigation they may find that she died of other causes, but he’d seen firsthand how barbaric the Slavs were. They likely didn’t understand forensic toxicology, so he felt it was an unnecessary step.

  However, Oberjäger Mueller was loyal to the Party. He would do as directed. “Hurry!” he ordered.

  “I’m trying. The damned matches won’t light,” the soldier replied, his fingers shaking in fear from the knowledge of his impending death.

  “Imbecile. Give them to me. We must get this going before Bormann has us skinned alive.”

  “What do you want me to do? I can’t make them dry out.”

  “Watch your tone, Soldat, or I will file a report on your insubordination if you continue.”

  That caused the man to laugh heartily. Easily twenty years older than the oberjäger, Soldat Ulrich was conscripted from his small farm only four months prior. He’d been given rudimentary classes on the Gewehr rifle slung crosswise across his back and sent to guard the Chancellery and protect the heart of the Fatherland. It has all been a pile of horse manure, a poisoned dream, Ulrich thought. I will die here and never see my beloved Gertie again.

  “Yes, Oberjäger Mueller. I wouldn’t want to end up in one of your reports.”

  “Shut up and give me the matches.”

  Mueller snatched the box away from the private in anticipation. He’d been given a second directive, directly from Bormann himself. “We need more petrol, Ulrich. Pour the last can on her body.”

  “Another can, Oberjäger? We will run out of fuel for the generators soon enough. Is it wise to use so much?”

  “Yes. Just do as I say.”

  Mueller watched the grumbling private as he knelt beside the pit and began to pour more fuel into the grave. In a smooth motion, he drew the Walther P38 from its holster on his belt and fired into the side of Ulrich’s head, just behind the eyes, level with his ears.

  The body slumped forward, splashing into the puddle of petrol. The wool of his field grey uniform quickly soaked up fuel and Mueller had to use his knife to cut the private’s rifle strap and pull the weapon from the pit. If the ruse is to work, the rifle would be a dead giveaway.

  He pushed the bodies around with the end of the Gewehr until he was satisfied and tossed the useless matches on top of the bodies. He chuckled quietly to himself when the box broke open and matches stuck to the Jew’s hair. Extra flame for the fire, Mueller thought.

  A new box of matches emerged from his pocket and he pulled one out. With a practiced strike, the match erupted into flame and he dropped it on the private’s coat. The fire spread quickly, causing him to step back away from the pit.

  He tossed the remaining few logs onto the fire and retreated toward the entrance of the Führerbunker, where the most important man in Germany sat, ready to depart for the port at Kristiansand, Norway.

  First, they had to get him safely to the airfield and pray that the Luftwaffe’s new Nightshade technology would keep the plane hidden from the Allies long enough to make it to the waiting U-boat.

  *****

  19 March 2020

  Fort Lauderdale, Florida

  The sky erupted in a flurry of explosions, bright red, green and blue sparks streaking out over the ocean.

  Everyone cheered and then the music began as the concert headliner came out onto the stage. The crush of bodies jumping up and down in the sand made Gabe feel claustriphobic. Guys in board shorts spilled beer on each other and laughed while women in skimpy bikinis screamed their adulation of the artist. He was miserable.

  Gabriel Murdock wondered for the hundredth time how he’d let his friends talk him into coming to the concert. They’d promised him free beer and loose women. So far, he’d seen neither. It was a bunch of
dudes looking for the same thing. They charged fifteen bucks for a beer and every girl that he did see was with her boyfriend.

  Talk about a waste of time. He could have been at the bar, paying only six dollars for a beer, or even better, back at their hotel room where they had three cases of beer that they’d already paid for.

  He was a senior at Missouri State University, majoring in Military History, so money was tight. Gabe was in the ROTC program there and would commission as a second lieutenant in the US Army in two months. He’d assessed into the Infantry, so he’d report to Fort Benning, Georgia immediately after graduation. As an infantryman, he had about eight months of training between the Infantry Officer Basic Course and Ranger School before he made it to his first unit and got the opportunity to lead soldiers. It seemed like a lifetime away from where he stood, digging his toes into the sand.

  “Hey, Kilgore!” Gabe shouted to be heard over the music.

  “I know, man! Isn’t this great?” his best friend, Todd Kilgore, yelled.

  “What?” he replied. “No! This sucks. Let’s go back.”

  “Huh? No way. This is awesome. Look at these women! And the music… What’s wrong? Are you drunk already?”

  Gabe thought about the question. If he said yes, would they leave? Probably not. “No, I’m just not feeling it.”

  “Are you kidding me? This is our last spring break before we have to become adults, man. I’m not leaving this concert—unless some chick wants me to take her back to the hotel.”

  “Come on, Kilgore. We’ve got beer back at our room.”

  “Nah. I’m gonna stay here. You can go.”

  “That’s it? You’re not gonna watch out for your battle buddy?”

  “I can’t believe you’re gonna pull this crap, Gabe,” Kilgore said in disgust. “I’ll meet up with you later.”

  He turned back to the stage and Gabe threw up his hands—or at least he tried to. There were too many people around to accomplish the gesture, so he began the arduous task of pushing his way through the press of bodies toward the back of the crowd.

  After several minutes of slipping between people, stepping awkwardly around groups, and generally feeling like a jerk, he made it out to the back where people stood in their own little groups, not part of the larger crowd. This was more his style, not being in the thick of that undulating, drunken mob.

  With the closeness of the crowd behind him, Gabe was able to breathe a sigh of relief. He wasn’t claustrophobic in the classic sense, but large crowds of people had made him nervous ever since the marathon bombing in Boston. He’d been there as a spectator, missing the qualifying time by a full twenty minutes. The smoke and explosion was horrendous. People screaming. Blood everywhere. Disorientation. Sirens…

  He stopped next to a concrete barrier and bent over, placing his hands on it to take a deep breath. His heart was racing, like it did every time he thought about that day. He was fortunate that he hadn’t been injured, but his proximity to the attack had left him scarred nonetheless.

  “Hey, are you okay?” a girl with a southern accent asked as a pair of boots came into his line of sight.

  “Huh? Yeah, I, uh…” he looked up. She was pretty, not drop-dead gorgeous like a lot of the coeds down here in Fort Lauderdale seemed to be, but in a girl next door sort of way instead. The blonde wore a pair of cutoff jeans with cowboy boots, and a modest tan tank top that reminded him of a hundred girls he’d met over the course of the week.

  “Sorry, yeah. I just didn’t like the crowd,” Gabe finished.

  “That’s why we’re back here,” she indicated a few people, both men and women, a few feet from where he’d chosen to have a panic attack. Gabe tried to do a quick count of the male-to-female ratio, but didn’t succeed before the girl continued, “I’m Olivia.”

  “Gabe,” he replied, shaking her hand lightly.

  “Do you like the band?”

  “They’re okay. Not my usual type of music, but it seems to be what everyone listens to down here.”

  “You don’t like rap?” she asked.

  “No, it’s not that. I just—”

  “Me either. I just want some old school country music now and then.”

  Gabe smiled. “That’s my favorite too.”

  She pursed her lips and squinted her eyes. “Are you just telling me what you think I want to hear?”

  “No, really. I like country music. Promise.” He made a stupid crossing of his heart gesture that he regretted immediately. “So, where do you go to school?”

  “Mississippi State. You?”

  They spent the next several minutes in conversation, ignoring the concert, Olivia’s friends, and everything but themselves. It turned out that they had much more in common than Gabe would have ever thought imaginable. He really liked her, cursing his luck that she lived in Mississippi and he was in Missouri.

  “Hey, do you want to go to a bar I know over on Seabreeze?” He pointed to her empty plastic cup. “It’s just about a block off the beach.”

  Olivia glanced at her friends and then back at Gabe. “No funny business, right?”

  “Scouts honor.”

  “Are you a Boy Scout?” she asked.

  “No… It just seemed like something appropriate to say.”

  She laughed and leaned into him. “I’m not going to sleep with you, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “What?” he squeaked. “No, of course not. I—”

  Strange lights out over the ocean above the girl’s shoulder caught his eye.

  “You can’t even think of a good lie to tell me?” Oliva teased.

  The first few larger lights he’d noticed separated into hundreds of individual lights. They looked like they were streaking toward the beach.

  “I… I think we need to get to cover, Olivia.”

  “Huh?”

  He pointed and grabbed her wrist with his other hand. The lights were much closer than they’d been just seconds earlier.

  “Hey, let me go!”

  “We need to get out of here!”

  She let herself be pulled along, feigning reluctance. “It’s probably another light show. Quit freaking out.”

  “No, those are… I don’t know what those are, but I know we—”

  Multiple explosions nearby threw him sideways and he lost his grip on Olivia. Gabe flew through the air, hitting his head on one of the concrete barriers he’d rested against earlier and darkness took him.

  TWO

  06 July 1945

  Davis Sea, Antarctica

  The sailor took a deep drag from the cigarette, relishing the heat in his frozen lungs. After a full month underwater, Oberleutnant Otto Wermuth’s boat had reached their objective and he’d ordered the signal sent to the waiting troops. Below decks, resting in the cabin that had once been his, the Führer continued to plan the war with his closest advisors—even though everyone knew the Fatherland was lost.

  In addition to the Führer, U-530 carried the sum total of Nazi scientific experimentation for the past two decades. Hundreds of boxes filled with blueprints, plans and in some cases, prototypes of equipment filled the holds where the torpedoes would normally have been. His boat carried the future of the Nazi party.

  They were still two miles from the beginning of the ice, but if the Führer’s plan was to be believed, U-530 could show no signs of run-ins with the floating ice. So now they waited; for what, Otto had no clue.

  He’d been shocked by the order to throw all but four of their torpedoes into the harbor at Kristiansand, more so when they were ordered to dismantle the deck gun and shove it over the side as well. Shortly after those tasks were completed, the documents began to appear. A large contingent of Waffen-SS men worked tirelessly to load case after case of paperwork and materiel.

  Once everything was loaded, the crew was ordered to the dock. Otto watched in mute anger as eighty percent of his men and all the officers were sent off in trucks, replaced by SS men who reportedly knew how to sail. The original c
rewmen who remained held specialized positions that weren’t easily replaced. All were directed to surrender their soldbüchers, which contained information on their identity, a photograph and pay information. It was very strange, indeed.

  Before he departed, the SS-standartenführer pulled Otto aside. He ordered Otto to sail exactly twenty-four miles southwest into the North Sea and surface for an exchange at midnight. The final thing he said before leaving was that the crew of U-530 was not to record a ship’s log for the upcoming patrol.

  The plane that landed effortlessly on the water beside U-530 had been something that he’d never imagined possible. It was hard to see against the dark ocean, even with the half-moon above, but what he could see was a marvel of engineering. The plane resembled a kite, similar to what he’d flown as a child in Württemberg. It seemed impossible that something like that could fly under its own power, let alone operate as soundlessly as it had when he first spotted it in the sky above.

  He’d almost ordered the men to open fire on it, but held the order as a light began flashing from the foundering plane. This was the rendezvous contact they’d been waiting on. It floated close enough to see several men standing on the top of it, although he hadn’t been able to see how they got there. Otto ordered the gangplank lowered and four men came aboard his boat—correction, three men and one woman.

  If he’d been shocked about the disposal of the torpedoes, he was completely dumbfounded to see the face of the Führer, his hair soaked from the sea spray and his jacket crumpled from the trip. The man had returned his salute crossly and staggered toward the hatch which took him below decks. Rounding out the party was a dark haired woman named Eva, the Führer’s secretary, Martin Bormann and a mountain infantry sergeant named Mueller.

  The plane sank into the sea and U-530 followed suit, sailing around the British islands and commencing a few torpedo attacks off the coast of New York as a ruse before making way toward Antarctica. Now they were here, waiting on their next contact.