TYRELL CORPORATION, LLC

“The Name You Can Trust”

“It's Just Business..."

A Short Story for

ION 2006

By

A. Eldon Tyrell

Chapter 1

"A New Direction"

November 1942. A villa with a view somewhere in Southern France.

Mr. A. Eldon Tyrell stood at the open bay window gazing out at the Mediterranean.  Just returned from a business trip to the Russian Front, he let the Mediterranean sun pump warmth into bones still chilled from the hell of Stalingrad.  It was a beautiful day on the Riviera, seemingly created for his enjoyment.  Despite the gentle breeze and mild temperatures, Tyrell's thoughts were neither gentle nor mild.

"Two weeks of slogging through frozen mud ducking Russian snipers!  For what?!" he thought angrily, "Stalingrad is nothing but rubble.  Feldwebel Schultz had it right, it has become a 'War of the Rats'.  There is no profit in rats.  By the time this war is over, nothing in Russian will be standing.  The rats will conquer all.  Perhaps a new strategy is in order."

A discrete nock announced the arrival of Alan Steele, esq., one of Tyrell's closest confidants and Chief Counsel to the Tyrell Corporation, LLC.  "Good afternoon, Mr. Tyrell," Steele said, "How was Russia?"

"Cold," replied Tyrell curtly as he turned to face Steele, "And full of damn Russians with poor attitudes."

"That bad?" asked a surprised Steele.  Early reports from Operation Barbarossa had the Germans rolling across the Soviet Union with little opposition.

"Worse."  Tyrell said.  "The entire advance has stalled in Stalingrad and the Reds are thick as rats in the rubble.  Bombing and shelling the city just gave the Reds more places to hide."

"I take it we won’t see any business opportunities in that direction?"

"Oh, there are plenty of opportunities.  The problem is finding someone to pay the bills.  The German supply lines are stretched so thin that starvation is a real possibility.  The Russians are shooting at everything that doesn’t duck fast enough.  I doubt we’ll find anyone on either side ready to negotiate supply contracts or be willing to pay for anything.  If we specialized in warm boots and delousing powder, we’d make a killing.”  Tyrell winced inwardly at his choice of words.  The team he took into German-occupied Russia had come close to being wiped out.  The memories of their narrow escape were all too vivid.

"I heard you and the Survey Team ran into trouble around Stalingrad."

"Trouble is one word.  We tried to look at the Factory District to see what could be salvaged.  Instead, we spent the entire time getting the crap kicked out of us by the damn Reds."

"But General Von Paulus cabled that you and the team had done a wonderful job supporting their advance."  Steele said, confusion creeping into his voice.

"Oh, yeah.  The good General loved the great distraction we made getting our butts handed to us.  I understand Goebbles called it ‘a heroic effort,’” Tyrell said sourly, "It didn’t look too ‘glorious’ from the trenches Col. Phillips and I crawled through!"

"How is Phillips?"

"With luck he’ll be out of the hospital in a week.  Thanks to Dr. Chew’s ‘Miracle Fitness Elixir’ he is recovering very quickly."

"That’s good news."

"It certainly is.  I suspect we’ll need the Col to deal with a few personnel matters that have come to my attention,”  Tyrell said darkly.

"Oh?"  Steele was getting nervous.  Col Phillips commanded the Tyrell Special Security Service (SSS) and was the company’s chief enforcer.  Every time he dealt with "personnel matters" Steele had to ensure there were no legal repercussions.  He also had to schedule a thorough carpet cleaning the next day.

"I tell ya, Al," Tyrell said, ignoring Steele’s concern, "If nothing else, my trip convinced me that we need to begin serious contingency planning"

"How serious?"  Steele asked; glad to be off the "personnel" topic.

"I'm not at all sure the Germans will advance past Stalingrad.  I think Hitler will have to settle for Poland and the Ukraine.  Given the news from North Africa, I’m beginning to think we’ll need to ingratiate ourselves a bit more with the Allies."

“Yes, sir.  That Senator who gave us all the trouble last year is still running around accusing us of ‘war profiteering’”

“Not Truman again?!”  Asked Tyrell angrily.  “That idiot couldn’t make it as a haberdasher and now he presumes to dictate how I run my business!”  Tyrell had nothing but contempt for Senator Truman and his special investigative committee.  “Maybe Col Phillips and the Boys need to pay him a visit,” Tyrell muttered.

Steele paled as he hurriedly changed the subject, "Sir, are you sure the Reds won't push the Germans right out of Russia altogether?"

"With what," Tyrell said contemptuously, "A bunch of ragged peasants?  Do you know they are so desperate they have women snipers!  I tell you, Al, first we give women the vote and then the damn Commies to teach them to shoot.  What's next?"

"Equal pay for equal work?" both men erupted in laughter.

"Oh, that's a good one!  Remind me to tell that one at the next board meeting," still chuckling, Tyrrell made his way to the bar on the far side of the room.  "Join me, Al?"

"Of course, sir.  Two fingers, please."

Tyrell poured a generous dollop of Glenmorangie's best 20-year old single malt into a pair of glasses.  Handing Steele his glass, Tyrrell said, "To the future!  There is opportunity in Chaos and oh so much Chaos in a world at war."

In England, General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Allied Commander, stared out over a ruined London.  As he sipped from his glass, he whispered, "One day...."

Chapter 2

"The Art of the Deal"

February 3, 1943.  Waldorf Astoria Hotel, New York.

Western Union Telegram Service

February 2, 1943.

Von Paulus surrendered STOP Stalingrad lost STOP

Recommend withdrawal of all personnel from AO STOP

KS

The telegram began to shake with the fury of the man holding it.  Mr. Eldon Tyrell, CEO of the Tyrell Corporation, LLC decided that the glass in his other hand needed to die.  He threw it against the wall with all the force in his compact body.  The explosion painted the lush wood paneling with a spray of amber liquor and shattered glass.  Most satisfying.  Too late, he realized it was still half –full of very good Scotch.  “Damn!” he thought, ”Stalingrad’s fall is bad, but THAT was a tragedy!”

The suite’s door burst open as three members of Tyrell’s Special Security Service (SSS) slammed into the room with weapons questing for a target.  “Sorry, fellas,” Tyrell said apologetically, “Just some bad news and a little temper tantrum.”  The SSS personnel straightened from their crouches and put away their weapons.  Tyrell’s own hand relaxed on the butt of the small revolver in his smoking jacket pocket.  Their entrance had startled him badly.  “Now that would be embarrassing,” he thought wryly, “Getting into a gun fight with my own people over my own stupidity.”       

The center figure remained behind as the others left to resume their posts.  Closing the door, he turned and said, “OK.  What’s going on?”

  “The damn Commies took Stalingrad,” replied Tyrell anger creeping into his voice.  “Keyser Soze is recommending we withdraw everything from the Soviet area of operations.”

Col. Phillips, Commander of the SSS, felt his face tighten with anger of his own.  “We lost a lot of good people setting up the Soviet operation,” Phillips said.  He rubbed his left hip remembering the shock and pain of the sniper’s bullet, courtesy of their last trip to the city.  “That damn place almost got both of us as well.  I hate to see all that go to waste.”

  “No choice,” Tyrell replied curtly, his own thoughts filled with muzzle flashes and frozen corpses.  “We better take Soze at his word that the situation is beyond salvage.  Time to cut our losses.  Get our people out.  Now.  I need to make some phone calls.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Phillips, “Where should we send them next?”

  “France.  I want to beef up our presence at the fuel depots.  Start thinking about how we are going to defend our assets in Northern France.”

  “Do you anticipate trouble?”

  “Always.  The Allies are getting serious about invasion planning.  I doubt they can get anything organized for at least a year, but we better start planning for the attempt.”

  “So who do we back?  The Germans or the Allies?”

  “Why both of course!”  Both men smiled like something with too many teeth and a dorsal fin.  Tyrell continued, “Is Professor Chew here or at the lab?”

  “He’s at the lab,” Phillips replied with an amused smile, “Where he usually is.”

  “Of course,” Tyrell said chuckling, “Let’s hope the local fire department is on alert.”  Professor Hannibal Chew had developed most of Tyrell’s high-tech weapons.  While brilliant, Chew had a disconcerting habit of ignoring personal danger while pursuing his lethal ideas.  He was now on his third lab and twelfth personal lab assistant.

  “Should I alert Mr. Steele that there may be another ‘tragic gas explosion’?” asked Phillips half-jokingly.

  “No.” said Tyrell suddenly serious.  “Don’t tell Al about my speaking to Professor Chew.”

  “Hmmm.  One of THOSE conversations?”

  “Yes.  Let’s not get Al upset.”

  “He does love his ‘plausible deniability’.” 

  “Exactly.  I’d rather keep him in the dark on this one.”

  “Understood.”  Phillips nodded and turned on his heel, head out to shut down Tyrell’s Russian network.

Tyrell walked to the bedroom and opened a small, armored attaché case.  Nestled inside a layer of protective foam lay a strange device looking like a cross between a telephone and a typewriter.  Laying the device on the bed, he plugged the power cord into the wall and waited for the device to warm up.  While he waited, he took out a stick of gum and began chewing meditatively.  After a few minutes, the green ready light came on.  Tyrell crossed to the painting of a tranquil meadow on the opposite wall.  Easing the painting aside, he mashed the chewed gum into a tiny, concealed microphone.  Whistling tunelessly between his teeth, Tyrell went to the bedside phone and said, “Operator, please give me TYRELL 628.”

A series of clicks and buzzes sounded while the operator routed the call.  Finally, a pleasant female voice answered, “Tyrell Special Projects Office, may I help you?”

  “Cindy, it’s Eldon,” Tyrell said, “Can you please retrieve the Good Professor from his lair?”

  “Yes, sir!” came the flustered reply, “I’ll get him right away.” 

  “Thank you,” said Tyrell to a suddenly empty chair.  A few moments later a gruff voice came on the line, “Yes?”

  “This is Eldon,” Tyrell said, “Go to secure.”  A sharp intake of breath answered him.  Ten seconds later, a high, warbling tone sounded.  Tyrell put the receiver into an oddly shaped cradle with the attaché case.  He flipped a switch and picked up the smaller handset built into the case.  “Eldon, secure,” he said.

  “Chew, secure,” came the reply.  “What can I do for you, Eldon?”  Chew seldom called Tyrell “sir.”  Then again, his inventions made the company a lot of money.  The old corporate joke ran, “You can have polite employees, reliable employees, or brilliant employees.  Pick any two.”  Tyrell paid for results, not pleasantries.

  “Professor Chew,” Tyrell said calmly, “Begin Project Ragarnok.”

OSS Headquaters, 2340 E Street, Washington, D.C.

Brigadier William J. Donovan closed a folder marked “TOP SECRET”.  He leaned back in his squeaking chair and thought about the information 

inside.  “What is he up to?” he thought.  After a moment, he leaned forward and pushed the intercom button, “Sergeant, can you come in here, please?  

I need to send a letter to the Boss.”

Miss Grace Tully,

The White House,

Washington, D.C.

Dear Grace:

     Would you please see that the attached

memorandum is placed before the President?

          Thank you.

          Sincerly,

          William J. Donovan,

               Director

OFFICE OF STRATEGIC SERVICES

WASHINGTON, D.C.

                                                      4 February 1943

MEMORANDUM FOR THE PRESIDENT

1.   We have received information from Source X-Ray that Subject T is engaged in previously unknown project code named “Ragarnok”. 
2.   Subject T disabled primary listening device and used some unknown form of telephone scrambler to prevent our intercepting the call.
3.   Source X-Ray was able to hear most of Subject T’s side of conversation.  Source X-Ray placed a glass against the adjoining wall of Source X-Ray’s room.  Source X-Ray took this action after hearing breaking glass in Subject T’s room.
4.   Presence of scrambler, deliberate disabling of primary listening device, and travel pattern over last year suggest Subject T should be considered a significant threat.
5.   Request authorization for close domestic surveillance and possible direct action.
 

                                        THE WHITE HOUSE
                                           WASHINGTON
February 6, 1943

MEMORANDUM FOR
             GENERAL DONOVAN

Bill, take no action with regard to Subject T.  Mr. Hoover will take over domestic surveillance of Subject T.  Please stay out of his way.  Absolutely no direct action is authorized.  Subject T is assisting us with another project that has top priority.  Take no action regarding “Project Ragarnok” and destroy all records of that intercept.  I will explain in greater detail later.  Please drop by Thursday for lunch.

F.D.R.

Chapter 3

“Arc 2.0”

April 1944. SS Headquarters, Hotel Prinz Albrecht.

Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler poured lukewarm coffee into his cracked china cup while pondering the bad news from the Eastern Front. He stared into his cup thinking that there wasn’t much of either unbroken china or good coffee left in the Reich. Rationing was the order of the day in the heart of Germany. “The Communists move closer each day,” he thought angrily, “We should have crushed them at Stalingrad! Damn Goering with his promises of air support. He can’t even keep the Allies from shattering my tableware!” Daylight bombing raids punished German industry daily. “And that idiot Goebbels keeps telling everyone how glorious it is to be bombed. That man could make the 7th Level of Hell seem like a tourist destination.” Himmler sipped his tepid coffee and wondered if the time had finally come to run.

Like most high party officials, he had contingency plans for getting out of Germany before it fell. Himmler knew the Allies would cheerfully hang him as soon as they found the camps. The Russians wouldn’t be so kind. He had no intention of dangling from a rope or being tortured by Stalin. He carefully fingered the tiny capsule in his breast pocket. His ultimate escape route. “No,” he thought, “We can still preserve the Reich. I and my Teutonic Knights of the SS will shield Germany. We will fulfill our destiny. The stars are aligned and it is our time. Those mongrels in Russian cannot defeat us! Still, a wise man preserves his options. Perhaps a letter to my special ‘friend’ is in order. Perhaps a pretty painting or two to catch his attention.” The intercom’s buzz interrupted his thoughts.

“Yes?” he asked, annoyed at the interruption.

“Herr Reichsführer,” said Himmler’s aide, “Hauptsturmführer von Hoffman is here to see you.”

Himmler’s mood lightened instantly. “Send him right in, please.”

“Yes, sir!”

The door opened a moment later to admit SS-Hauptsturmführer Heinrich von Hoffman. He was one of the few Prussian nobility in the SS. Granted, he was the third son of a minor baron, but the von Hoffman name was an old and honored one. Hoffman marched in as Himmler rose from his chair. He stopped a precise three paces from Himmler’s desk and snapped out his arm, “Heil, Hitler!”

Himmler, as befitted his high party rank, returned the salute with a vague wave of his bent arm. “Heil, Hitler,” he replied. Then he extended his hand and said, “My dear Heinrich, it is good to see you in one piece. How was your trip?”

Von Hoffman relaxed and shook the offered hand with a firm grip. “We had great luck at several dig sites and even more at the museums,” Hoffman said with a fierce grin. He removed a type-written list from his uniform jacket and handed it to Himmler.

Himmler eagerly scanned the list. After a moment he looked up and said, “Item 13 here: ‘Suspected Arc of the Covenant’. Suspected?”

“Actually Herr Reichsführer,” Hoffman said an edge creeping into his voice, “the list should read ‘forged Arc of the Covenant’.”

“Forged, Hauptsturmführer?”

Hoffman noticed he was no longer “my dear Heinrich”. He said with increasing nervousness, “Yes, sir. Our experts believe that the gold and other metals of the ‘Arc’ were poured around the 3rd Century A.D., but there is also evidence of modern tampering with the artifact.”

“What ‘tampering’?”

“It appears that the inner surfaces and lid have been reworked by fine machine tools, Herr Reichsführer.”

“Interesting. Someone polished the gold, then?”

“Yes, sir. They also seem to have modified the lid for a better fit.”

“Well, it sounds like a fine artifact if nothing else. Perhaps our friend Goebbels can make something of it in his ‘news’ broadcasts.” Himmler relaxed. For a moment, he thought an awkward situation had arisen. After all, what would he do with two Arcs? Chuckling to himself he resumed scanning the list. A notation next to the Arc caught his eye. “It says here you purchased the artifact from an ‘unlicensed dealer’ in Lisbon.”

“Yes, sir, “ von Hoffman fidgeted a bit and said, “The dealer claimed he got it from a freighter before it left for America. The person who gave it to him asked that he ‘return it to the desert’. Unfortunately, the dealer was now short of cash and looking for a ‘collector who would respect its rich history’.”

“Meaning someone stole it off the ship and the dealer was trying to sell it before the owner caught up with him?”

“Yes, sir. That is the most likely possibility, sir.” Hoffman was now visibly nervous.

Himmler, sensing there was more to the story, asked “Do you have any idea what ship the artifact was on?”

“Uhm,” von Hoffman hesitated.

“Yes?” prompted Himmler.

“It may have been one of the Tyrell Shipping Line freighters, sir.” Von Hoffman felt the sweat oozing from his forehead.

Himmler pursed his lips and rocked back on his heels. “Heinrich,” he said softly, “are you telling me that we have Mr. Tyrell’s stolen property?”

“Yes, sir,” von Hoffman now silently willed his vital functions to stop.
Himmler thought about this information for a moment. “Heinrich, you may not be aware of this, but Mr. Tyrell sold a similar artifact to one of our agents a few months ago. It also turned out to be a forgery, but a cleverer one than what you described. Our agents claimed that the Arc actually had the power to invisibly slay enemies. Unfortunately, it appears that power has faded, if it existed at all. Now we find a second Arc aboard a Tyrell ship. Why would Tyrell have a spare Arc lying around? What are they up to?”

“I do not know, Herr Reichsführer.”

“Neither do I, Heinrich. Perhaps Mr. Tyrell never had a real Arc and pawned his forgery off on our agents. Or maybe he plans to sell several Arcs so no one suspects he actually has the real thing. Or maybe he is hiding something else entirely.” Himmler quickly wrote out an order and handed it to Hoffman. “Take this to Obersturmführer Seedow in Research. It is an order to give the Arcs top priority. Mr. Tyrell is up to something and I want to know what.”

Von Hoffman hesitated. “Sir, are there going to be any repercussions?” he asked.

“Meaning, will Mr. Tyrell, what is that American expression, oh yes, ‘fit you for a cement overcoat’?”

Hoffman paled to translucency, “Yes, sir”.

Himmler laughed and slapped him on the back, “Don’t worry, Heinrich! First of all, Mr. Tyrell doesn’t know and second you are an officer of the SS not some Chicago hoodlum. Tyrell won’t like it when he finds out, but what is he going to do – bomb us?” Von Hoffman managed a weak chuckle. “I’ll take care of Mr. Tyrell. A little something from the Louvre and he will forget all about his silly Arc. He is a businessman after all. Here,” Himmler scribbled another order, “I want you take some leave. You’ve done a fine job for the Fatherland and deserve a special reward. Northern France is nice this time of year. In fact,” he pulled a special blue card from his pocket and handed it to Hoffman, “Take this. It will get you into a very exclusive club near Normandy. It’s called ‘The Blue Shroom’. They have an excellent cellar and make the best schnitzel this side of Bavaria. Of course,” he smiled knowingly, “They also tailor to the needs of soldiers far from home.”

Von Hoffman braced to attention and said, “Thank you! Herr Reichsführer! I will see Obersturmführer Seedow right away!”

“Thank you, Heinrich. Enjoy France.”

Von Hoffman saluted again, turned on his heel, and exited the office. Himmler looked at the closed door for a moment, and then returned to his desk. He took out his stationary and began to compose a letter. “Sometimes,” he thought, “the tools we need appear. Truly, the stars favor our cause. Now, the trick will be to carefully exploit this opportunity.”

April 1944. A villa with a view somewhere in Southern France:

Eldon Tyrell stood as two men entered his office. The fading light of another beautiful day on the Riviera silhouetted the Tyrell CEO as he smiled and said, “Welcome, Gentlemen. Mr. Santori, I apologize for the mess, I’m having some painting done in the morning.” Tyrell motioned to the drop cloths on the floor and furniture. As Sartori continued toward the desk, the second man drifted into a corner of the office out of the window’s glare limping slightly.

“No problem, sir,” Giuliani Sartori said. Sartori was in charge of Tyrell’s shipping division. He earned an excellent salary and a great deal more on his “side deals”. He had invited Sartori to the villa for a long weekend of “meetings.” Sartori knew only a few key executives were ever invited to the Villa as everyone called it. Obviously, Tyrell was grooming him for better things.

“I’ll keep this brief so we can both get back to enjoying ourselves,” Tyrell said. The Villa was more resort than office. “One of our ships arrived in New York missing some cargo.”

“Sir?” Sartori asked in a puzzled tone, “I don’t understand. Everything was reported delivered.”

“Yes. I see your signature right here,” Tyrell gestured to a form on his desk. “The problem is that the manifest you signed off on is not the original.” He pointed to another identical form on his desk. “Fortunately, there is only one crate missing. Unfortunately, the crate contained my personal property, not the company’s.”

“I will get on it right away, sir!” Sartori responded, the first hint of nervousness breaking through his confident exterior. He had no idea Antonio had snatched the Boss’ stuff. This was going to be bad.

“That won’t be necessary. I will handle it – personally.” Tyrell’s voice dropped several degrees at the end of the sentence. He continued in a cold tone, “Is there anything you would like to tell me before you go?”

Sartori weighed telling Tyrell that he had been allowing Antonio Giordano, nephew to Vito Genovese, to make a few things “fall off the truck” between Europe and the US. He decided to keep quiet. Antonio was not noted for his understanding nature. Better to take his chances with Tyrell. All he could do was fire him. “No, sir. This is the first I've heard of this.”

“You disappoint me, Giuliani.” Tyrell said quietly. In a flat tone he said, “Colonel Phillips.”

The weapon seemingly rose without haste as Giuliani turned away from the desk, but two shots slapped out before he completed the motion. Giuliani crumbled straight down. A puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut.

"I see Prof. Chew has improved his 'suppressor'," Tyrell commented dryly.

"Yeah," replied Col. Phillips, "integrating it into the weapon as a single piece makes it about like a loud cap gun. Concealment is a bit of a problem though." He tucked the long-barreled pistol back into his waste band.

Tyrell chuckled, "I thought you were favoring your left leg when you came in. I assumed it was the old bullet wound from Stalingrad."

"So did he."

"Let's get him wrapped up and send him on a moonlight cruise." Tyrell began folding the painting drop cloths over the body.

"He wasn't working alone you know." Phillips didn't like to leave loose ends.

"Yes. We need to make a little trip to New York to see Antonio."

"What about the German who bought the Arc?"

"Despite Herr Himmler's pacifier," Tyrell gestured to an original Renoir in a lit alcove. "I think we'll give him to Carlos." Tyrell smiled, "After all, Al isn't the only one who likes his 'plausible deniability'. Maybe Himmler will get the subtle message that I am not amused." Himmler had enclosed a note with the painting explaining that quote "returning the Arc at this time would put an undue strain on German resources" unquote. Obviously, the Reichsführer suspected the Arc was not what it seemed. Loss of the Arc put a serious crimp in the schedule, but not a fatal one.

Phillips just grunted assent and finished wrapping the body. A pair of trusted Tyrell security personnel would ensure its disposal. "What do you plan to do about Antonio?" he asked.

"Something massive," Tyrell replied, again gazing out the window, "Something massive."

Chapter 4

 “It’s Not Nice to Fool Eldon”

April 1944. Blue Shroom Club, Northern France.

SS-Hauptsturmführer Heinrich von Hoffman was a happy man. Part of his pleasure came from the nubile French beauty squirming delightfully in his lap. “Fifi” had attached herself to him within moments of his arrival. Charming, soft, and very feminine, she was just the thing to motivate an SS man to conquer the world. Additional pleasure came from the honored reception he received at the Blue Shroom.

Arriving at the address provided by Reichsführer Himmler, von Hoffman was afraid there had been a mistake. In the darkness of blacked out France, the non-descript building did not resemble any of the clubs he had visited in his military career. Only a small, unlit sign announced the presence of the exclusive establishment to the outside world. Apparently, the Blue Shroom’s management relied on referrals by other customers rather than neon signs and billboards. Squaring his shoulders, von Hoffman pushed through the plain wooden door. Sound and light assaulted his senses as he entered a short hallway leading into the club. He glimpsed a low stage and a scattering of tables occupied by well-dressed patrons. All had female companions.

Before he could get a better look, two large men in tuxedos stepped forward. Von Hoffman looked back in trained reflex to find another tuxedoed giant closing the door behind him. He also noted that the door was much thicker than he suspected. “Armored and sound-proofed no doubt,” he thought, trying to keep his uneasiness at bay.

“May we help you, sir,” said the tuxedo on the right.

“Yes,” replied von Hoffman allowing some of his usual arrogance to reassert itself, “A prominent friend recommended your establishment, my good man.” He presented the card given him by the Reichsführer.

The tuxedoed bouncer smiled broadly and said, “Welcome Herr Hauptsturmführer. We were told to expect you. Right this way, please.” He gestured to a private booth near the stage. Fifi had joined him moments later saying that she was supposed “to make sure you have a good time”.

Several rounds of drinks followed by the excellent schnitzel recommended by the Reichsführer left von Hoffman very mellow indeed. But the thing that completed his happiness had nothing to do with food, drink, or even the delectable Fifi. No. His greatest pleasure came from the knowledge that he served the Reich well. The personal attention of the Reichsführer and his deep trust in von Hoffman did more to satisfy von Hoffman than all the riches of Avarice. He knew himself to be a true son of the Teutonic Knights the Reichsführer spoke about.

Fifi interrupted his thoughts. “Let us leave this place. I have a small apartment just down the street,” she whispered. Her eyes promised more earthy pleasures than satisfaction with one’s duty. Von Hoffman smiled knowingly and said, “Of course, liebchen. A Prussian gentleman never keeps a lady waiting.” Giggling, the two made their unsteady way to the door.

Outside, von Hoffman set his officer’s cap at a jaunty angle just in time for Fifi to snatch it playfully from his head. Giggling even more, she skipped ahead of him and said, “Catch me if you can!” She caught her red lower lip between white teeth as she ducked into a nearby alley.

Growling with anticipation, von Hoffman strode purposefully for the alley. He caught Fifi just inside and pulled her close. She leaned forward and kissed him deeply. Boldly her hands explored his body in the shadowy darkness thrown by the adjacent buildings. Stepping back, she gazed deeply into his eyes with unbridled hunger.

The shot was a vicious crack that bounced from the hard bricks around them. Von Hoffman felt a molten steel fist punch through his heart. He slid to his knees with a look of utter bewilderment on his face. Revealed in the faint moonlight was a demon of hate grinning like a death’s head. As darkness sucked him under, he slumped forward in a boneless heap. Fifi threw down her weapon. It was a skeletal, stamped metal frame with a .45 round built into a thin metal tube serving as a crude barrel. A single shot, disposal assassination weapon devoid of markings. Cheap, concealable and untraceable.

Fifi walked calmly down the alley to meet her Resistance contact. By morning, she would have a new job in another club and search for another fine SS officer.

Across the street, concealed by the shadows of another alley, Pierre LaDouce turned to his companion,”You see, mon ami?” he asked, “I told you she could be relied on. She hates the SS more than most.”

The man known only as “Carlos” simply nodded and handed a thick envelope to LaDouce, “Agreed. Here is your payment. The additional weapons will be dropped two days from now at Reference Point November.”

“Yes, more of the little pistols and some explosives, no?” Though Fifi did not know it, Pierre LaDouce was more than her cell leader. He was actually the chief of “Le Resistance” for all of Northern France. The explosives and other weapons would be put to immediate use against the “Boche”.

“Perhaps,” replied Carlos, “I’m just relaying the message.”

“Ah, yes. Will I see you again, my friend?”

“Perhaps,” Carlos said again, “It depends on who is paying and how much.”

April 1944. Upstate New York.

Antonio Diorgiano blinked against the harsh glare as his blindfold was removed. Squinting, he again tested the ropes binding him to the straight-back chair. Nothing budged. Time to try something else. "You're all dead! You hear me?" he shouted, "Do you a$$holes know who I am?"

"You are Antonio Diorgiano, nephew to Vito Genovese," replied a calm voice from beyond the glaring light.

"That's right! If you don't let me go right now, my uncle will kill all of you and your entire families!"

"Oh, I doubt that," said the calm voice.

Antonio realized he was in deep trouble. His smooth snatch off the street leaving Camilla's apartment meant these guys were pros. Now the apparent leader wasn't the least afraid of Uncle Vito. Everyone was afraid of Uncle Vito! "Who are you?" he asked in a quieter tone.

"A. Eldon Tyrell at your service," said the voice. The light dipped a bit as the shadowy figured executed a mock bow. At his gesture, a pair of lanterns was turned up to provide illumination. Antonio took advantage of the extra light to look around. He could see two other figures besides Mr. Tyrell. They had the look of muscle. Beyond them he could see stalls and hay on the floor. Antonio figured he was in a stable that had not seen a horse in some time. Given how far they had driven while he was blindfolded, he assumed they were way out in the boondocks. He had better talk fast, or he would not leave the stable alive.

“Mr. Tyrell," Antonio said quickly, “I’m real sorry. We didn't mean to take your stuff. "

"I take it you couldn't see the large red "T" on the side of my ship?" Tyrell asked dryly.

“You have to understand, Mr. Tyrrell," Antonio pleaded, “I wasn't even there! My guys didn't know any better. I mean they knew it was your ship, but not that the crate was your personal stuff!"

“You stole from me, Antonio," said Tyrrell coldly, “they were your crew and your responsibility.”

Antonio's eyes darted all around as he tried to think of something to say. Of course he and his crew had known that it was Tyrell's ship. That was the whole point. Antonio knew his uncle was becoming concerned that Tyrell had grown too large and powerful to remember old friends. The theft was to demonstrate Tyrell was weak and vulnerable. The fact that he was the one now pleading for his life showed how wrong he had been.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Antonio," Tyrell said very quietly. Tyrell’s hand slid from his overcoat pocket filled with a .38 snub-nosed revolver. A hammer shroud ensured the weapon could be drawn without catching on cloth. He raised the gun and pointed it at Antonio's face.

Diorgiano knew we was going to die, but he was damned if it was going to be as a coward. "Go to Hell!" he yelled in defiance even as his body went numb waiting for the bullet.

"You first," said Tyrell.

CLICK. Time froze as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Tyrell lowered the weapon, smiling slightly, "You are silly and ignorant, but you got guts. And guts is enough," he said. “Your uncle believes that something can be made of you. I do not share his opinion. I do, however, respect Mr. Genovese. We have had many profitable ventures over the years and I expect more." Tyrell gestured to his security guards, “Cut him loose.” In moments, they freed Antonio and allowed him to collapse to his knees with the pain of returning circulation.

Antonio looked up and said, “You won't regret this Mr. Tyrell. I'll make it up to you."

“That won't be necessary, Antonio," said Tyrrell. "You are brave, but lack discipline. Fortunately, I know a way to further your education. If you survive, look me up in a few years. I can always use brave men."

"You're not turning me over to the cops are you?" asked Antonio.

"You wish," Tyrell looked towards the stable door behind Diorgiano and said, “He’s all yours, Gunnery Sergeant.”

A deep booming voice said, "Thank you, sir!" As Tyrell moved to the door, a pair of large, mirror-polished shoes stopped in front of Antonio. He looked up and up the kaki-clad legs until he found a pair of the largest nostrils he had ever seen. Above the nostrils was the brim of a wide, brown hat. The hat leaned over and a pair of fierce eyes pinned him as the mouth shouted, "Oh my God! What do we have here, Sweetheart?!" The mouth was a megaphone whose words struck with force, "Get on your feet, Recruit! There are only two kinds of men on their knees around here: priests and..."

The stable door cut off the rest of the Gunnery Sergeant's words as Tyrell and the men around him had a soft chuckle. The ancient ritual had begun. A new Marine was being forged on an anvil of pain. The process was largely unchanged from the days Centurions ran recruits ragged under the Roman sun. All of Tyrell's party had worn one uniform or another before donning Tyrell's red and black. They knew the rest of the ceremony by heart.

As the black sedan sped Tyrell to the airport, he contemplated his next move. The Arc was likely beyond his reach, but something might still be done before Himmler discovered its secrets. "Attempt retrieval or destroy it?" he thought, "Either way, it's risky. Maybe we better contract this one out. The last thing we need is Himmler catching us trying to re-steal it." In the meantime, he had better plan how to get back on schedule. The delay in replacing the Arc material would be inconvenient, not to mention expensive, but they could still make their deadline. A little slack had been built into the project with just such a contingency in mind. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat. There was a lot to do and sleep was always welcome. Before drifting off, his thoughts turned to a certain dark mistress, "Ah Nixx," he thought, "If only we could work something out." He slipped into a pleasing and thoroughly pornographic dream as the car sped through the night.

Chapter 5

“Predators and Prey”

April 1944. Operation Tiger Exercise Area.

Capt. Fritz Dierdorf turned to his sonar operator and asked, "Are targets holding course and speed?"

“Aye, sir. They are steady on course at approximately 4 knots. “

The Captain turned back and said, "Up periscope.” The oiled column grew from the deck until the Captain could seize the grips. Making a fast 360 degree scan, he brought the view back on his target. The landing ship wallowed in the swells as it worked its way toward a narrow beach. Slowing his breathing, he read the range finding stadia lines in the scope’s view. Doing some rapid calculation in his head, he called, “Range 750 meters. Bearing 94 degrees. Set firing solution and prepare to shoot. “

The Weapons Officer adjusted his calculations slightly for the change in bearing from their last periscope sighting. ”Solution set and locked in," he said, "Ready to shoot, Sir"

“Fire one!" said the Captain.

“Firing one, aye," replied the Weapons Officer. Unlike American submarines, there was no "jolt" as a slug of compressed air blew a torpedo free from its tube. Instead a hydraulic ram pushed the torpedo clear of the boat so its own motor could engage. “One away, Sir."

“Fire two!"

“Firing two!" a pause and the Weapons Officer reported, “Two away, Sir."

“Left full rudder," ordered the Captain, “Steer course 115 degrees, maintain depth. Down scope."

“Course 115 degrees, depth 20 meters, aye, Sir," replied the Officer of the Deck.

The Captain carefully watched the second hand spin around the clock as he waited for the opportunity to launch his next two weapons. “Up scope.” He slid the periscope’s cross hairs on to the landing ship and said, “Target bearing 5 degrees, range 875 meters, match bearings and prepare to shoot."

The Officer of the Deck had the helmsman adjust course by 5 degrees as the Weapons Officer said, “Firing solution set and locked in, Sir."

“Wait for it," the Captain whispered to himself as he watched his boat swing onto the second ship. “Fire 3! Fire 4!"

“Firing three, firing four, all torpedoes away, Captain.”

“Down scope! Left full rudder. Come to course 260 degrees all ahead one half"

“Course 260 degrees, all ahead one half, aye, Sir," acknowledged the Officer of the Deck.

“Sonar, any contacts moving in our direction?"

"Negative, Captain."

“Excellent," he turned to the Weapons Officer and asked, "Running time on Torpedoes One and Two?"

“Thirty seconds for Torpedo One and thirty-six seconds for Torpedo Two," replied the Weapons Officer. Everyone was silent as they listened for the sound that would signal success. The Sonar Operator removed his headphones to protect his ears from the anticipated explosions. “Torpedo impact in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1," the Weapons Officer paused. A “thump” that could be felt through their shoes ran through the boat followed a split-second later by the faint sound of the explosion. Another followed in quick succession. The Sonar Operator immediately replaced his head phones.

“Captain," said the Sonar Operator, “I have secondary explosions and flooding sounds.” There was a muted cheering in the boat as word spread of their success.

“Torpedo 3 and 4?" asked the Captain.

“Impact in 45 and 52 seconds respectively, Sir" replied the Weapons Officer. Again the Sonar Operator snatched his headphones off.

“Is the aft tube ready?" asked the Captain.

“Aft torpedo room reports ready, Sir," replied the Weapons Officer.

“Up periscope," the Captain did another 360 degree scan, holding his breath until he confirmed that no destroyers were closing in on his position. He could see smoke rising from the first target. Patiently he waited as the time counted down.

“Torpedo impact in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1," said the Weapons Officer. Silence. A moment later they felt another shock through the feet and the sound of another distant explosion.

“Torpedo 3 missed or failed to detonate Captain," said the Sonar Operator, “Number 4 definitely struck. I have secondary explosions. “

The Captain could see the second landing ship wreathed in smoke erupting from amidships. “Time to finish this,” he thought. “Range 900 meters. Bearing 195 degrees. Match bearings and prepare shoot."

This time, the Weapons Officer took longer to plot out the solution. Range was increasing every minute and 900 meters was a long way. It would take almost two minutes for the weapon to reach the target. “Solution set and locked in, Sir."

The Captain waited a moment as the submarine changed course slightly to match bearings and then said, “Fire 5."

“Firing 5," said the Weapons Officer.

“Down scope. Come to course 286 degrees make your depth 85 meters, all ahead full,"

While he waited for the results of his last attack, the Sonar Operator said, “Captain, I'm hearing high speed surface craft. Torpedoes in the water! It appears the E-boats have started their attack."

That was good news. German intelligence had noticed a lot of signal traffic in the area. Suspecting the Allies were up to something, the Navy decided to stage a quick raid. Capt. Dierdorf's boat was to start the attack with the E-Boats providing a follow-up. For once it looked as if the plan was actually working. With the E-boats to concentrate on, the Allied destroyers should be too busy to look for a lone submarine. He turned to the Japanese naval officer behind him, “I hope you enjoyed the demonstration, Commander Nakamura," he said.

“Hai, thank you, Captain," said the officer in heavily accented German, “this will greatly aid our own operations. I regret that we have only one small boat available."

“I am sure it will be adequate.” replied the Captain, “If the Allies ever summon the courage to invade ‘Fortress Europe’ we will need all the help we can get.”

In the waters above, the men involved in Operation Tiger, a practice exercise for that very invasion, fought to stay afloat. If this was "practice," how bad would the real thing get screwed up? As darkness fell so did the Allies' prospects for victory.

(Authors note: “Operation”, or “Exercise”, “Tiger” was one of several practice invasions staged by the Allies. On this particular occasion, several German E-boats (fast attack boats) launched a surprise torpedo attack. Two LSTs (landing ship, tank) were sunk and one severely damaged. Over 700 men lost their lives. Fearing the Germans would get wind of the invasion plans, the survivors were sworn to secrecy by a nervous Allied Command. Many of those survivors remained silent until well after the war was over. Allied planners learned a great deal from Operation Tiger that they applied to D-Day. Better defense of the invasion fleet was only one of them. There is no evidence that a German submarine was involved in the attack. That part is poetic license. For more information: http://www.mikekemble.com/ww2/tiger1.html)


 

 Chapter 6:

“Greed is Good”

May 1944. A Villa with a View.

Eldon Tyrell said at his desk doing his least favorite thing in the world -- paperwork. He had been at it until late in the evening with no end in sight. "This is what I get for running around the world and playing games at my age, he thought to himself, "One of these days I am going to find a way to replicate myself and make the replicant do the damn paperwork!” Sighing he signed off on another report and placed it in the completed pile. He opened the next file and sat straighter in his chair. "Ah, this is more like it,” he thought, "looks like her shares are doing quite well." The document was an account statement showing a very nice portfolio growing at a modest rate. A single name headed the page: Nixx.

Tyrell leaned back in his seat and allowed himself a moment of wistful regret. "Ah, Nixx," he sighed, "Why couldn't we make Paris last forever?" They told themselves it was the war. Her determination to fight for the Americans and his equal determination to remain profitably neutral. The arguments had worn themselves into familiar grooves without ever reaching the real reason. They were both too dominating to remain together. Neither could stand to have their will subordinated to the other. "After all," Tyrell mused wryly, "it's not 'Nixx', its 'Mistress Nixx'. And for damn good reason."

His dark mistress was now somewhere in England, no doubt preparing to assault fortress Europe. She and her forces would likely batter themselves into a broken mass against the German Wall. Knowing Nixx, she would be in the first wave. Even if the allies succeeded in creating a beachhead, she was unlikely to survive. Her insistence on leading from the front had been one of their many disagreements. He also knew that nothing he said would change her mind. "Still," he thought, "I do need to let her know how her portfolio is doing.” Because of her position in allied command, Tyrell would have to be discrete in his contact. Her Corporation investment was a secret they would both like kept from General Eisenhower and that snoop Donovan.

Speaking of Donovan. Tyrell looked up from his desk and said, "Is there something I can help you with, boy?" From the doorway leading off the office to Tyrell’s bedroom, a large figure dressed in black stepped into the light. The Colt .45 filling his right hand trained unwaveringly on Tyrell. A black ski mask covered his head. Black leather gloves and dark tennis shoes completed the stealth outfit.

The figure said, “Mr. Tyrell. General Donovan sends his regards."

Tyrell closed the file on his desk and opened another. “Remind me to be impressed later," replied Tyrell. “I’m rather busy at the moment," he continued, "but if you'd care to make an appointment I will be happy to see you sometime next month.”  He began writing notes on the margins of the next report.

The figure stepped further into the room and raised the weapon, “Maybe you didn't hear me, sir," he said, “General Donovan sent me. He has a few questions for you."

Looking up from his report, Tyrell said, “Oh, in that case take a few answers. Tyrell let out a series of loud, wet “strawberry” noises.

The figure shifted into a more hostile stance as the weapon came level with Tyrell's head. “Look pal," the figure growled, "I'm through being polite. You're gonna tell me what I want to know or I'm going to put a slug in you."

“Well, we can't have that," said Tyrell as he rose from his desk. “What is it that my old friend Billy wants to know?"

“General Donovan wants to know about your project Ragarnok," said the figure.

“Oh, that is a harmless little hobby of mine," said Tyrell as he walked over to his bookshelf and began toying with some of the objects there.

“I’m afraid I'll need a little more detail than that.”

“Well, I'm fascinated with artifacts and ancient art," replied Tyrell. "Especially religious art. Take this for example," he held up a six-inch sculpture made of solid brass resembling a pair of claws joined by an ornate rod. He stepped toward the black figure and gestured with the sculpture, “this comes all the way from Tibet. It is one of the tools that allow Buddhist priests to focus their powers. “

“I am not interested in your art collection," said the figure thumbing off the Colt’s safety.

“Very well," said Tyrell letting his left arm fall at his side. He turned and picked up a file from the desk. Turning back with the file in his right hand, he took a step toward the figure, "This file has the basics," he said as he took another step, "The more detailed stuff is going to cost Donovan. "

“I don't believe you are in any position to bargain, sir," said the figure as he reached for the file.

Tyrell gestured with the file in his right hand and said, “Oh, I think that..." Tyrell's left hand slammed the Vjay Diamond Thunderbolt into the figure’s right side while stepping to his left. The edge of the file caught the figure's gun hand at the wrist, knocking the weapon up and away. Tyrell stepped in as he opened his hand to release the file. His left hand flashed out to control the gun arm, the thunderbolt now trapped between his palm and the figure’s arm. This forced the rod portion into sensitive parts of the forearm. Tyrell struck with the web of his right hand into the top of the figure’s throat. Continuing the movement, he stepped through, lifting the figure off his feet. The body hit the ground on shoulders and head as Tyrell finished the sequence by twisting the .45 from the stunned gunman's grip. He leaped back a short distance, the pistol now leveled on his opponent's head. Tyrell said, "My turn, Skippy!"

Unfortunately, the audience was out for intermission. "Crap," said Tyrell. "Must have done that a bit too fast," he thought to himself, "I'm glad Sensei didn't see it. I'd be doing pushups for a week!" The door opened as Tyrell's security force moved in. "Nice of you to join us," he said sarcastically.

"Sorry about that," said Col. Phillips with mock sincerity, "but me and the boys had a bet going as to whether you would wait for us or do something stupid."

"I take it you won."

"Of course," smiled Phillips, "I knew you couldn't resist kicking a puppy."

"The puppy had a gun," Tyrell reminded him.

Phillips grunted and said, "Did him a lot of good I see."

"Never mind. Let's see if he can wake up enough to be useful."

"Why?" asked Phillips, "He's going swimming anyway."

"Oh, no," said Tyrell with a predatory grin, "I can think of much better uses for Laughing Boy, here." Phillips' security detail roughly searched the figure and trussed his arms behind his back. They brought him to a kneeling position and tied his crossed ankles together. Tyrell walked over to the wet bar in the corner and drew a glass of water. He nodded to the security detail who pulled the mask from the gunman's head.

"Puppy" Phillips had called him and he was close to right. The kid looked barely old enough to shave. There was no way an OSS agent could be that young, so he must have one of those perpetually youthful faces. Add in a good physique and a strong jaw and this kid could be an OSS recruiting poster. Or a Nazi one. Feeling very much past forty, Tyrell decided to get an early start on hating him.

"Wakey, wakey," Tyrell said as he splashed water onto the puppy's face. "Plenty of time for napping on your way back home."

Slowly, the would-be commando came to. He looked up fuzzily and said, "What happened?"

"How original," said Tyrell dryly, "You were hit by a street car. Now pay attention. I want you to take an envelope to a friend of mine in England. Then I want you to take a message back to your boss."

"You're letting me go?"

"Boy, the OSS sure does get the best and brightest," said Tyrell sarcastically. "Yes. I'm letting you go so you can play messenger boy. Take this envelope to the address on the outside. Don't bother with trying to read the letter. It's in code and your people aren't as good as mine. Plus I don't intend to let my 'Enigma Machine' fall into your hands. After you finish with that little task, I want you to send your boss a message."

"What?"

"You know, the thing I like about you hero types is the sparing use of words." At his confused look Tyrell decided that he better leave out the sarcasm. It was wasted on this one. Of course, it could be the concussion. "Tell Billy Donovan to stay out of my way. Any more ham-handed interference and I will pull out of our mutual project in Manhattan. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Take the coded letter to the address specified. Tell General Donovan to leave you alone."

"Lord," Tyrell looked Heavenward in mock exasperation, "I know it is a test, but you have way too much confidence in me! Here, son, I'll write it out for you." Tyrell scratched a quick note on his stationary and placed it in the agent's pocket. "Tell this to Donovan exactly, boy," Tyrell said in cold voice, "or I will be very disappointed in you. You won't like that. Briefly. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good. Get him out of here and on a boat to England. Treat for mild concussion and severe stupidity."

“Wait!" said the OSS agent, “General Donovan wanted me to give you a message too!"

“And ...?" Tyrell looked at the OSS man expectantly.

“It’s in my shoe," he stammered, “under the insole.”

Tyrell nodded to the security team. They cut loose the agent's ankles and conducted a brief search. In a moment, a flat, foil-covered package was found and passed to Tyrell. He turned it over in his hands and said, “Nice. Waterproof and easily concealable. I'll bet you could swallow this without damaging the contents."

“Yes, sir," said the OSS agent, “that’s how I brought it over the Channel. Then I, uh, recovered it after I got here."

Tyrell thought about the message packets' journey and its “recovery “. “Lovely," said Tyrell, “remind me to disinfect the office and have my hands sterilized.” He looked at the OSS agent, “Does Donovan expect an immediate reply?"

“Yes, sir. I was told to expect one.”

While he tore open the package and unfolded the message, Tyrell said, “Not even Billy is dumb enough to want me mad at him right now. What were your actual orders?"

The OSS agent glanced sideways and said, “To deliver the message and take your reply back, sir.”

“So whose idea was the breaking and entering and the ‘persuader’?" said Tyrell gesturing with the gun.

“Mine.” He now looked thoroughly miserable, “Everybody knows that Tyrell Corporation has something big in the works called 'Ragarnok' and I thought..."

“You thought you could be a hero!" interrupted Tyrell, “Show everybody how tough you were by standing up to the big, bad Tyrell Wolf. That's it isn't it?!"

The young OSS agent just looked sheepish and stayed silent. Tyrell and Phillips exchanged a meaningful glance. Between Anthony and the Puppy, brave idiots were a bumper crop this year.

Tyrell snorted, "There are no heroes in our business, boy, only survivors. Courage is cheap. Everybody who plays this game is brave or they are dead within a week. What is hard to find are men who can get the job done. Who won't quit. Who will adapt and overcome regardless of what you throw at them. Your boss Donovan understands that. Do you know what's in this message?"

“No, sir.”

“Donovan wants a very difficult job done and he is willing to pay a very handsome amount to people with the ability to make it happen.” Tyrell glanced around the room and said, “He wants us to assassinate Hitler.” The room became very still.

“How much?" asked Phillips. Tyrell handed over the message so Phillips could read it for himself. The colonel let out a low whistle, “that is a lot of money, Eldon," he said quietly.

“I know, but you also know my policy on killing heads of state and army command staffs.”

“Yes," said Phillips reluctantly, "Quote: 'the Tyrell Corporation will not assassinate any recognized head of state or commanding general of a major army unless they represent a clear and present danger to the Corporation.' End quote."

“And why is that our policy?"

“Because Tyrell is the name you can trust!" Phillips said with mock enthusiasm.

“That’s right," said Tyrell ignoring the sarcasm. He turned back to the OSS agent, "My answer is 'no' to the first proposal. The second proposal, however, is well within our capabilities. "

Phillips glanced back at the page and found the second part of Donovan request, “Oh, yeah. That we can do, but it's not nearly as good a price. "

“John," Tyrell said with his own mock sincerity, "where is your patriotism? Of course we will be happy to arrange the money transfer for your operative. Have Donovan wire the money through our normal channels in Switzerland. We'll also be happy to supply a suitable device for the mission. We can work out the details later." Tyrell gestured at the security team and said, "OK. Send him on his way." The security detail frog-marched a very confused agent out of the door.

“It’s risky, Eldon," said Phillips quietly.

Tyrell smiled, “A minute ago you were ready to knock off the No. 1 Nazi. Now you want to talk about risk?"

“You know what I mean.”

“I know," said Tyrell, " but if you remember I turned down a similar offer on Eisenhower and a much bigger one on George Patton.” Tyrell smiled, “Now that one would be interesting. Maybe Georgie and I could each get in our tanks and square off. "

“I am pretty sure that jousting has gone out of favor.”

“Yes,” sighed Tyrell, “the 20th-century has no sense of poetry.”

“Poetry don't pay the bills.”

“You’re right," said Tyrell with an even bigger sigh, “Time to get back to work.” Tyrell sat back at his desk as Phillips went out. Picking up another file, he opened it and exclaimed, "Crap! It's audit time again!" The file contained a notice from Norne Anderson, LLP, the cognizant auditor for the corporation, that Norne himself would be stopping by to look over the books. "That is the last thing I need right now," Tyrell thought to himself. "I better have Al lay on the usual 'entertainment' to keep him distracted. I wonder how much this one is going to cost me!”

Tyrell closed the file again and turned to look out the darkened window behind him. He asked his reflection, "Why don't you go to England, kidnap her, and spend the rest of the war on a remote Caribbean island?" His reflection answered, "Because she would kick your *** out and have you arrested for trying to bribe an officer!" He chuckled a little bitterly, "Maybe if I brought a tank?"

Chapter 7

 “A Fist Full of Arks”

May 1944.  SS Headquarters, Hotel Prinz Albrecht.

Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler was pouring over the latest income figures from his “discretionary” accounts when the intercom interrupted his study, “Herr Reichsführer, I'm sorry to interrupt, but Obersturmführer Seedow is here about the 'item'.”

“Ah, yes.  Send him right in, please.” 

Obersturmführer Kurt Seedow entered quickly, slapped out an arm in salute and barked, “Heil, Hitler!”  Himmler waved a negligent hand in reply, but said nothing.  He was not particularly pleased with Seedow and the efforts of his research team.

“What progress can you report?” Himmler asked.

Seedow , dressed in a white lab coat, with a slide rule and pen in the breast pocket, adjusted his glasses and said excitedly, “Herr Reichsführer, we have discovered how the first Ark produced so many casualties.”

“Yes?” Himmler prompted.

“Well, sir.  We found traces of a nerve gas similar to those in our own arsenal.  We believe that Tyrell Corporation used a more potent version in combination with an aerosol antidote in their demonstration.  That's why none of our own people were harmed.”

Himmler looked at Seedow and said, “Aerosol?  You mean some kind of mist?  None of our agents reported any 'mist' around them.”

“No, Herr Reichsführer!” said Seedow warming to his topic.  “The nerve gas is invisible, odorless, and tasteless.  The antidote must also be undetectable.  We believe the antidote was contained in the so called 'Staff of Ra' and sprayed over the area our agents stood in.  Tyrell himself claimed that the staff was necessary to protect a small group from the Ark's 'effects'.”

“So it was all a hoax?” Himmler asked with an edge to his voice.

“Yes, Herr Reichsführer.”

“And the second Ark?”

“That is a bit more puzzling.” Seedow said as pulled a small notebook from his pocket.

“How so?”

“As Hauptsturmführer von Hoffman suspected, it is from the 3^rd Century.  The relic was also defaced sometime with in the recent past.”  

“What do you mean 'defaced'?”

“It appears that a new gold layer was added to the inside to make it more decorative, and the lid was machined to fit snugly.”

“Why would anyone ruin such an antiquity?”

"We do not know, Herr Reichsführer.  Mr. Tyrell is reputed to have a strange obsession with rare art and artifacts.  I understand he keeps his scotch in an Egyptian embalming jar!”

“Maybe,” said Himmler thoughtfully, “but I wonder what Mr. Tyrell is up to.  It doesn't make sense to put all that work into two forgeries.  He had to know that we would discover the nature of his first Ark.  Why make the second one?  And why is he so intent on getting it back?”

“We do not know, Herr Reichsführer.”

“We had better find out.  The Gestapo has picked up some disturbing information about Tyrell's dealings with the Allies.  We think he may even have links to French!  Although what he expects to gain from them is unclear.  Is there anything else?”

Seedow hesitated a moment, then said, “Well, sir.  Some of our mass calculations appear to be off.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Ark is heavier than it should be.  We know it is gold with a lead core.  Based on simple mathematics, the Ark should weigh about 350 kilograms.  Our tests show it weighing in at almost 400 kilograms.  It is as if it is made of something denser than gold or lead.”

“What?' said Himmler suddenly intrigued.

“We don't know, sir.  Unfortunately, several of my research assistants have recently fallen ill.  I am somewhat short-handed right now.”

“Nothing serious, I hope,” said Himmler solicitously.

“Oh, no sir.  They just feel weak and one of them is loosing a little hair.”

“Sounds like a strange disease.”

“Yes, sir.  I'm sure with a few days rest, they will be ready to serve the Reich again.”

“Well, keep an eye on them.  Given what Tyrell's first Ark did, this may be some other gas or poison container.”

“Oh, no sir.  The first thing we checked for was any toxins.  Whatever it is, I don't think the Ark could be causing it.”

“Nonetheless.  I want you and your team to take all precautions.  I do not trust Mr. Tyrell and his toys.  He is up to something and whatever it is, it involves the Ark.  I got another letter from him just yesterday asking when his team could pick up the artifact!  He had the arrogance to remind me of his close relationship with the Furher and his company's assistance to our war effort.”

“If I may be so bold, Herr Reichsführer.  Perhaps it is time to remind him who controls half the world?  He is, after all, only a merchant.”

“Perhaps, my dear Kurt, you are right.  Perhaps Mr. Tyrell needs a lesson in humility.”

May 1944.  Banque Nationale Suisse.  Bern, Switzerland  

Mr. Alan Steele, esq. waited patiently for the clerk to fulfill his request.  The “Special Accounts Section” handled only the most sensitive transactions for the most important customers.  Its security procedures were correspondingly deep and wide.  Checking the status of a transfer to these accounts always involved a considerable effort to ensure the requester's identity.  The worst part from his perspective was the cost of a mistake. If a client used the wrong password or account number twice, the bank charged a fortune to reset the "security system".  Steele suspected the "system" was simply a couple of old clerks having to type a new form in the back room.  Regardless, any time Tyrell acted as a "middleman" Steele insisted on a "service fee" sufficient to cover the Swiss security charges.  It was amazing how many otherwise intelligent men managed to lose their passwords or account numbers and expected Tyrell to “take care of things”.  No problem, sir, for a price, thought Steele.   

“Here you are, sir” said the wizened Swiss bank official as he handed a receipt to Steele.  “This is the confirmation of your transfer to the specified account.  The account will remain frozen until your company authorizes payment.  Remember, you must have the account number and password to release the funds.  Please also understand that you have only two tries before the system locks down.  Resetting the system is extremely expensive and the full responsibility of the customer.”

“I understand,” he said.  With a nod to the official, Steele turned and made his way back to the main lobby.  As he neared the exit, a man in a dark raincoat and hat entered and courteously held the door open.  Steele whispered, “Rosebud.”  The man simply nodded and Steele passed through.  They had a deal.  He hurried to a waiting taxi and told the driver, “The airport, please.  There's an extra twenty in it if we're there in thirty minutes.”

The driver said, “Yes, sir!” and the cab shot down the street.  With luck, Steele would be sipping a fine pinot noir at the Blue 'Shroom Club by evening.    

May 1944.  Somewhere in Northern France.

Norne Anderson, certified public accountant and chairman of the European Society of Public and Private Accountants, hung upside down over a pool of crystal blue water. For some reason, he did not seem to appreciate the beautiful view.  This was evidenced by his continued screaming. Perhaps it was his inverted position; perhaps it was the dorsal fins occasionally cutting the water below him; or maybe it was the maniacal laughter of the hooded figure turning a large crank. A crank that with each turn slowly lowered Anderson to the hungry mouths below.

“Mr. Tyrell, sir, we are almost there.”  The voice of his driver shook Eldon Tyrell out of his pleasant day dream.

“Wonder where I can get an unnecessarily slow dipping mechanism?” muttered Tyrell.

“Sir?” asked the driver.

“Nothing,” growled Tyrell, “just thinking out loud.”

“Uh ,yes, Sir,” said the driver uncertainly.  “Here we are, Sir,” the limo pulled up to a check-point manned by a squad of very alert Weirmarcht . The driver rolled down the window and then carefully put his hands back on the wheel. “Guten tag, Feldwebel.  Mr. Tyrell to see Oberstgruppenfuhrer Pastore.”

“Guten tag,” said a big sergeant leaning into the driver's window. He peered into the back seat and said, “May I see your identification papers, please, Sir?”

“Of course, Feldwebel,” said Tyrell politely handing over his identification and travel pass.  The sergeant was part of the special security detail known as “Ragnarok”.  Seemingly deferential now, Tyrell knew the soldier would not hesitate to shoot if they sensed even the slightest threat to their general.  Tyrell watched with professional interest as the sergeant used a field telephone in the guard shack to call in their presence.  His security detail remained quietly alert.  Like a pack of wolves eyeing their surroundings.  They knew they were the most dangerous things in the forest without having to prove it.  They maintained a watch on the car and the perimeter area.  “Good technique,” thought Tyrell, “They're not focusing on just the car.  Of course, Resistance attacks have been common around here.  Gives them plenty of practice.”

The big sergeant returned with their documents.  “The Oberstgruppenfuhrer will see you right away, sir,” said the sergeant pleasantly, “Please stay on the road and have your driver remain with the vehicle.”  The “or else” went unsaid.

“Thank you, Feldwebel,” replied Tyrell.

The car accelerated smoothly and rolled through the security gate.  As he pulled up to the HQ building, Tyrell's driver said, “I hope getting out of here is just as easy, sir.”

“So do I.  If it goes bad, use Escape Plan Bravo Sierra and remember the standing orders.”

“Yes, sir.  No ransom, no negotiation, just send in the Spooks to clean house.”

“Very good.  Don't forget the salt and plow.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind.  Gallows humor.  Carry on.”  As the driver pulled away to the parking area, Tyrell went inside the building with a manila file under his arm. 

Moments later he was escorted into Oberstgruppenfuhrer Mark Pastore's office. "ah, Eldon my good friend, welcome!  Please sit.  I appreciate your coming on such short notice.  Can I get you anything?  I believe you are a Scotch man?”

 “Herr Oberst is too kind,” replied Tyrell.  “A scotch rocks please.”

The general motioned to an orderly and said, “I'll have the same, please, Hans.”  With drinks in hand, the general got down to business, “I have  good news!  It seems the Reich has recovered something that belongs to you.  An, uhm,” Pastore referred to a document on his desk, “let me see, yes an 'Ark'.”

Tyrell sipped his drink and said, “That is good news.  I paid too much for it, but it was an excellent piece.”

“What exactly is an Ark?  I assume it is not a boat full of animals,” chuckled Pastore.

“No, Herr Oberst, “ said Tyrell with his own easy laugh, “This Ark supposedly held the shattered remnants of the original Ten Commandments.”

The General said with surprise, “Really!  Surely Herr Himmler would not have released it into my custody if it held such a treasure?”

“I'm afraid it is a fake.  A clever one, but it was made around the Third Century.”  Tyrell paused as a thought struck him, “Are you saying the Ark is here?!”

“Why, yes.”  The General noticed the poorly concealed interest Tyrell showed.  Not like him at all.  “The Reichsfuhrer entrusted it to my care.  Which brings me to the not so good news.”

“Yes,” prompted Tyrell with growing suspicion. 

“The Reichsfuhrer is a bit put out by your dealings with the Allies.  He has instructed me to turn over the Ark only 'if Mr. Tyrell has learned his place and who his friends are.'”  The General looked at Tyrell and said in a voice suddenly quiet and filled with the promise of steel, “Do I have reason to be concerned that you no longer know your friends, Eldon.” 

“No, Herr Oberst,” said Tyrell sitting straighter in his chair.  “In addition to being my landlord,” they shared a brief chuckle over the quip, “the Allies will undoubtedly seize all my German and French holdings if they win.  In addition, you may have heard I have had a few run-ins with the American OSS.”

“Yes,” the incident at the Villa.  “I'm surprised you let him live.”

“The Oberst is remarkably well informed,” said Tyrell with genuine surprise.  Have to move the perimeter out, he thought.  We must have missed one of the Gestapo watch dogs.  Sloppy, Eldon, sloppy.  Bad evil mastermind!  No cookie!”

“Donovan would just send another one and I see no reason to antagonize the Americans with meaningless gestures.”

“Still, they should learn that you are not a man to be trifled with.  Let me know if I can assist you in teaching them a lesson.  I find their OSS teams entirely too effective.  They stir up the French and I must expend extra resources to deal with them.  This distracts from the real work of preparing a reception for the Allies.”

“Let me deal with two  subjects at once, Herr Oberst,” said Tyrell as slid the manila folder across the desk. 

As the General scanned the photos inside, he said, “These are excellent photos, but what am I looking at?  I have many pictures of General Patton in my files.” 

“This is General Patton inspecting one of the large assembly points in Southeastern England for the coming invasion.  Most of your intelligence people believe he will lead the invasion and strike at the Pas de Calais.”

“Yes.  Although Field Marshal Rommel believes otherwise.”

“So I have heard him say,” Tyrell took a deep breath and said, “Do you see the tank sitting on the beach in the background?”  

“Yes.  What of it?”

“It is sitting on soft gravel in the rain.  A Sherman isn't as heavy as a Tiger, but…”

“It should be sunk to it's sprocket wheels,” said Pastore flatly, “It's a fake.”

“Yes.  We believe the entire 'Bodyguard' operation Patton is running is a deception.  Those 'tanks' and the landing craft are made from plywood.  Some of them are even inflatable!”

“Then the Field Marshall was right,” said Pastore quietly, “The hammer falls here in Normandy.”       

“That would be my guess, as well.”

“Very well.  Any idea when the Allies will move?”

“Hard to tell.  The weather is a mess right now.  I would say they won't come until late June at the earliest.  Maybe early July?”

“An invasion on the Fourth of July?  A bit dramatic for Eisenhower I would say.”

“Maybe Patton is advising him?” Tyrell said with a chuckle.

“Well, if you will excuse me, Eldon, I have a great deal to do.”

“Of course, Herr Oberst,” said Tyrell rising and heading for the door.  He turned back and said, “When can I pick up my Ark?”

Pastore looked at Tyrell for a  long moment and said, “I think I will hang onto it a bit longer.  After all, 'An army that carries the Ark before it cannot be defeated'.” 

“And I thought you didn't know anything about the Ark,” said Tyrell with a smile.

“Eldon, surely a sharp negotiator such as yourself knows to feign ignorance until his opponent reveals his position?”  Tyrell said nothing.  Merely smiled, nodded his head in acknowledgement and left the office.

When Tyrell was gone, the door to the adjacent room opened and a Gestapo man in full black leather trench coat entered.  “What do you think?” he asked.

“I don't know,” said Pastore.  “It would have helped if I had known we had the Ark sooner.  I could have spared a lot of effort trying to find out who stole it.”  He looked at the Gestapo agent, “I no longer have time for these games.  He provided us excellent intelligence on the Allies and has always dealt fairly with me.”

“He cannot be trusted,” said the Gestapo man darkly.

“I never said to trust him.  Tyrell will go where the money is.  If he truly values this 'Ark' then it must be valuable in some way.”

“It is made of gold.”

“Mr. Tyrell could drop the price of all the gold in that thing across the gaming table and laugh.  No there is  something more here, but I do not have time to worry about it.  For now, I will heed the Reichsfuhrer’s instructions.”

“You will follow orders!” said the Gestapo man abruptly.

Pastore grew very still.  He then rose smoothly to his full height and ground out each word like a stone crushing grain as it turns, “My orders come through the Wehrmacht, you little toad, not from Herr Himmler.  I was a soldier while you and your kind were stealing lunch money from the other children.  This is my second world war.  You may give me orders when you earn the right!  The entire Allied invasion is heading our way.  I suggest the Gestapo focus on wiping out the Resistance instead of lecturing Generals!  If you will do your job, my soldiers will not have to worry about their backs.  There will be more than enough in front of them to keep them occupied.  Or, if you prefer, I can arrange for you to man the forward machinegun bunker overlooking the beach.”

The Gestapo man held himself carefully.  He understood just how close the Void loomed.  He glanced at the General's orderly, one of the Ragnarok bodyguard and realized the sergeant's right hand was held behind him.

“My apologies, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer!” he said quickly, “I meant no offense!”

“I think it is a good time for you to go look for the Resistance.  Please feel free to come back if you ever find them.”  With that, Pastore sat down and began pouring over maps and logistics reports.  The Gestapo man clicked his heels, did a smart about face and marched quickly from the office.  No doubt the crawling sensation between his shoulder blades waiting for a bullet speeded the exit.         

When the door closed, Pastore looked up at his aide, “Follow him, discretely.  Something about this whole affair has me wondering who is working for whom.  If he gets too annoying, I'll send him to the Blue 'Shroom Club and let Eldon take care of it.”  The aide said nothing in reply, just padded out of the office like a leopard on the trail of lunch. 

Chapter 8

“Le Resistance and Betrayal”

 
May 1944. Tyrell Defense Fuels Facility. Normandy, France.

Pierre LaDouce closed his eyes and buried his face in the dirt as a searchlight swept over his position. Tyrell’s installation was very well-defended and the security force constantly swept the perimeter. “It would be suicide to attack the base with our little group,” he thought, “Fortunately we are not going to. The wise fox does not raid the henhouse, when the chickens will wander off on their own.” He grinned evilly and slid back into the brush.

LaDouce approached a group of waiting Resistance fighters lying prone in a semicircle facing outward. He pulled out a worn map from his jacket and joined their leader on the damp ground. A man with the nom de guerre of “Ace”, he was dressed all in black. The clothing failed to conceal his powerful arms. More than one enemy had found their embrace final. “It is time, mon ami.” LaDouce said. “Just as we planned, hit the convoy at the curve near the drop-off. Remember to get in and get out quickly. The Boche’s reaction force will be on your heels like starving dogs.”

“I understand, General,” replied Ace quietly. The two men rose to their feet.

LaDouce smiled and said, “You are the General now, Ace. I’m heading to Calais to stir things up. Maybe we can keep the Germans looking the wrong way. Northern France is yours. Lead well and I will see you at De Gaul’s victory parade!”

“Good luck, my General.” LaDouce leaned forward and gave him a kiss on each cheek. With that, he was gone into the night.

LaDouce turned to his squad and said, “Alright. Let’s move out. Remember the plan. Stay with your squad and if you get separated, we’ll meet at the rally point. If no one shows after fifteen minutes, head to the safe house. If that’s compromised, escape and evade according to your plans. Questions?” A unanimous shaking of heads met his fierce gaze. “They are ready,” he thought with satisfaction. “Pierre trained them well. Now let’s see what they can do when it is real.”

An hour later, the team lay above their ambush point and waited for their prey. The first vehicle, an open-topped Kübelwagen, came into view with its blackout lights barely illuminating the twisty road. It contained a driver and a pair of passengers in the back seat. Ace held his breath. The plan was to wait for the car to pass and hit the middle of the four vehicle convoy. If any of his partisans jumped the gun, they could lose the precious cargo in the middle trucks. Land mines planted further along the road would take care of the car as it tried to flee, but weeks of planning and a sizeable bribe would be wasted. The second vehicle creeped into sight as the Kübelwagen made it around the sharp curve. So far, so good. Ace rose to one knee and waited for the third truck to enter the kill zone. Just as it came into view, he pushed the plunger. Half the cliff to his right seemed to dissolve as the buried charges erupted. A storm of rocks and dirt struck the second and third trucks as the air filled with whirling debris. Automatic weapons split the night as his squad began firing on the rear and lead vehicles. Another large explosion signaled the end of the car.

Ace stood and waved his squad forward. They swept down the broken slope and through the convoy firing as they moved. It didn’t take long. The Germans were only running a handful of security on these small convoys. LaDouce and Ace had deliberately avoided operating in this area for months to allow the Germans to relax.

Ace moved to the two trucks caught in the middle of the mini-landslide. A figure was already digging into the back looking for their objective. “Got it!” he said and hauled a heavy crate out of the wreckage. Wiping a smear of blood from the lid, the man pried the lid off and smiled at Ace, “As promised. Here are the toys Mr. Tyrell has been working on.”

Inside the crate lay a pair of oddly shaped devices. They were packed in protective foam with large identification tags attached. The stylized “T” of the Tyrell Corporation was stamped on the tags, crate, and devices. “What are they?” asked Ace of the man holding the crate.

“Who knows?” replied the man, “But I’ll bet old Eldon will pay a pretty penny to get them back.” Gleaming teeth shone in the darkness as he continued, “Or maybe the Allies, if they ever get here, will pay even more. Word is they aren’t too happy with Mr. Tyrell.”

“Well, you did your part.” Ace reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope, “Here is your payment.” He hoped the night hid his expression. Ace didn’t care much for mercenaries. LaDouce had vouched for the man, but Ace did not trust him.

“My pleasure. I’ll be going now. Wouldn’t want the Spooks catching me here.” Tyrell’s shock troops would be scrambling in response to the attack. At best, it should take another 10 minutes for them to get on-site, but they had an annoying habit of exceeding expectations.

Ace simply nodded and turned back to his squad. His partisans had finished stripping the trucks of supplies. This raid would sustain operations for many weeks. “Let’s go! We need to move now! The reaction force will be here in a few minutes.” The Resistance fighters were scrambling back up the bank with crates and boxes and slung weapons. A pair of fighters snatched up the Tyrell crate from the truck and followed. Ace checked his watch by the light of the dying fires from the ambush. “Seven minutes total,” he thought, “Excellent! Pierre trained them VERY well!” He quickly swept the area to make sure all his people were off the objective, then turned and made his own way into the woods.

May 1944. Le Resistance Safe House. Near Normandy, France.

Ace leafed through the captured documents his men retrieved from the ambushed Kübelwagen. One of the passengers, a naval officer, had a dispatch case with a stack of papers in German and English. The second passenger had been one of the Gestapo pigs with his own locked briefcase. Most of the German documents were in code, but the English papers were not encrypted. While Ace could read English well and spoke it with almost no accent, he could not follow the documents’ contents. The words might be in English, but the language was that of academics. After several tries, he gave up trying to understand the technobabble and just wrote down some key words:

Gas Hydrates
Upwelling
Triangle
Benthic-Pelagic environment

Maybe he could get it to someone in Paris who could understand it.

In addition to the encrypted German documents there was a single sheet of something that looked like Oriental characters. Ace assumed it was Japanese, but he did not know for sure. Stapled to the maybe-Japanese document was a sketch of a small submarine. He had no idea what that meant.

The last document was the most interesting. It was a list of numbers on letterhead from the Banque Nationale Suisse. Unfortunately, the explosion and resulting fire in the Kübelwagen had damaged the list. It was the only thing they recovered from the Gestapo agent’s briefcase. He had wound up almost directly over the landmine. “Fitting,” thought Ace, “and no more than he deserved. It would have been nice to have gotten the whole list.” Only five of the numbers and none of the names were legible. “Still,” thought Ace, “If the Gestapo agent was carrying this, it must be important. Maybe Fifi’s cousin can help.” The Resistance had contacts in many unusual places. “Or maybe,” he thought with a laugh, “I should just ask Mr. Tyrell.” The surviving part of the document also contained a bit of text, “…transferred from Tyrell Corporation, LLC accounts per order of Custo….” The rest was lost.

Ace set aside the documents as he turned to the pile of regular mail. “Amazing,” he thought, “that anyone can still find time to write with Boche chasing us or that the letters even find us.” Prompt delivery was still a problem, but “se la guerre.” He shuffled through the envelopes, piling the ones to the side whose addressees would not answer in this life. That pile became disturbingly high. “So many lost,” he muttered, “and the Germans still infest our land.” His eyes were suddenly drawn to an envelope with a stylized “T” on the corner. “Tyrell? How’d they know where to find us? Damn that man!,” he thought. Carefully slitting the envelope with his fighting knife, Ace removed a single sheet of high-quality paper. “Your are cordially invited to a Diplomatic Reception,” he read. “Is he out of his mind!” Ace shouted. “And where does he expect us to find tuxedos! We can’t even find food!” Ace shook his head and started to ball up the invitation. He stopped as another thought struck him, “On the other hand, Tyrell is a businessman and we have something of his. Hmmm…”

 

May 1944. Blues ‘Shroom Club. Normandy, France.

Col. Phillips walked into the backroom of the Blue ‘Shroom Club that served as Eldon Tyrell’s de facto HQ in Northern France. Tyrell was working at a cramped desk stacked with papers and maps. He looked up at Phillips and said, “What have you got?”

“And a pleasant good morning to you too, Eldon,” replied Phillips jauntily.

“Alright,” said Tyrell with false cheerfulness, “Good morning, John. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Phillips laughed and said, “Better! Unfortunately, I don’t have good news. The Spooks swept the site and tried to pursue the attackers, but lost the trail at the edge of town.”

“We figured that much. These folks aren’t stupid.”

“No. In fact, they hit that convoy about as slickly as we could. They didn’t leave much behind, but I’d say they had to be Resistance.”

“OK. Looks like I need to have a word with our partisan friends. No trace of the components, I take it?”

“Nope. But we did find this.” Phillips handed a small card to Tyrell and waited for his reaction.

Dear Eldon.

Sorry about the mess, but the price was too good to pass up. I hope you understand.

It’s just business.

Love Carlos

Tyrell stood and began to shake with fury. “I WILL KILL THAT ARROGANT LITTLE T&*$! I WILL CHOP OFF THE PROTRUDING PARTS OF HIS BODY! I WILL POP OUT HIS EYES AND SKULL …” Phillips tuned out the rest of the tirade as he waited for Tyrell to run down.

After a good two minutes of mostly profanity, Phillips asked, “Are you done now?”

Panting a bit, Tyrell looked at him and smiled crookedly, “Yep. That about covers it. He has been a useful little troll but I believe it is time to downsize.”

“Understood. We’ll list him as a target of opportunity.”

“Good enough. Fortunately we have back-up components, but I hate losing spares. Start running the security sweeps on the convoy routes again and move everyone to Condition Orange.”

“’Enemy Operating in your Area.’ Right. By the way, why do we use such an idiotic color scheme for our threat conditions? I mean Green, Blue, Yellow, Orange, and Red? We never seem to get below Yellow.”

“Because I paid the consultant too much money for the stupid system not to use it!” ground out Tyrell.

“How about ‘Relax, Uh Oh, Oh Crap, and PANIC’ instead?”

“How about you go and find someone to kill?”

“Works for me. Have a wonderful day, Eldon!”

“Have a hemorrhoid, John.”

After Phillips left, Tyrell turned to his stack of personal mail. The very first letter raised his spirits, not mention blood pressure. Nixx was coming to the reception. “Well, well, well,” he thought. “Better get the good tux ready. The one with the neck sheath that’s cut to hide my shoulder holster.” Might be a good idea to lay on extra security, Nixx might do anything from kiss him to drive over him with a half-track. “My Cheri Amour!” he whispered, “I hope I survive your visit or at least die smiling!”

May 1944. Headquarters, German Northern Military District, Normandy, France.

“Is he out of his mind?!” said Oberstgruppenfuhrer Mark Pastore aloud when he read the Tyrell invitation. “He wants to have a ‘Diplomatic Reception’ while the Allies prepare to invade? I think it is a little late for diplomacy!”

“Perhaps he has finally snapped,” replied Gruppenfuhrer Shaffer. “Our agent in the Blue ‘Shroom Club heard him ranting and raving about something yesterday morning.”

“Oh, no! He is definitely up to something. And this ‘Tyrell Charitable Foundation’ is covering something else up.”

“Well, sir, it looks like we better break out the dress uniforms. The only way we are going to find out what he is up to is to attend the reception.”

Pastore thought it over for a moment and said, “Very well, but make sure the reaction force is on standby. We will deal from a position of strength with this man.”

“Yawohl, Herr Oberst! I will see to it myself.”

May 1944. Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force, London, England.

“Is he out of his mind?!” exclaimed General Robb, “We’re almost ready to invade, for God’s sake! The time for diplomacy ended back in 1938!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Nixx, “It might be a good opportunity to find out what he’s up to.”

Robb looked at her narrowly, “Are you sure that is the only reason you want to attend?”

“Well, it might make up my mind whether to kill him quickly or very slowly.”

“I thought you two were close before the war?”

“We were. But he couldn’t understand why I chose to fight and I couldn’t understand how he could make money off of both sides. A man has to stand for something.”

“I understand he’ll stand for something if the price is right.”

“Exactly,” said Nixx bitterly, “Nothing is ever free with him.” She stared out the window at the rain slowly running down the window. “I still think we should go. If for no other reason than to see who shows up.”

“OK,” said Robb carefully, “Do you think we can trust him to guarantee safe conduct?”

“Oh, yes.” She said turning back to her commander, “You can always count on him to keep his word. After all it’s ‘The Name You Can Trust’. God I hate that slogan.”

“Well, let’s see if we can find our dress uniforms. I hope you know what you are doing.”

"So do I," she whispered as she turned back to the window.

Chapter 9

“The Gathering Storm”

June 1944. Tyrell Advanced Research Facility Field Location Bravo Sierra. Location: CLASSIFIED.

Eldon Tyrell dived for cover behind a sturdy worktable as shards of glass and wood sought his life. The concussion slammed him up and down and around in its fury finally subsiding as the air filled with dust and the harsh smell of burning things. When the ringing in his ears cleared and debris quit zinging off the walls, he cautiously raised his head. “Scratch lab number 4,” he thought. “Professor Chew!,” he shouted into the murk, “Are you alive in there!”

“Yes, Eldon,” came the calm reply from his right.

Tyrell spun to face the tall man in the stained lab coat rising from behind a heavy metal barricade. A couple of young lab assistants were just barely visible behind him. “What the hell is going on?”

The professor removed a notebook and pen from his pocket and began scribbling as he replied, “It appears that the sample propagates at a considerable speed. This in combination with its combustibility make it very difficult to safely handle.” He peered over his glasses and said, “That is why we took cover behind the barricade.”

Tyrell didn’t know whether to laugh or strangle the academic. “Well, never count the ones that miss,“ he thought. “So I take it your experiments have been unsuccessful? Aside from remodeling the lab of course.”

“I would not say ‘unsuccessful’,” replied the professor thoughtfully. “We know how fast the substance expands and how much energy it contains. The problem is containment.” “No, really?!” said Tyrell with false surprise.

Chew seemed unaware of the sarcasm and plowed ahead, “Yes, the hydrate goes literally from a solid to gaseous state almost instantaneously. This represents a significant danger if the gaseous methane were to ignite. This is what we were just testing.”

“Testing?” Tyrell looked around at the wrecked lab.

“Uhm, yes,” said the professor as he adjusted his glasses, “The sample appears to have contained more energy than originally calculated. It shattered the containment vessel when we introduced an ignition source.”

“Lovely. What is the bottom line, Professor? Our clients want to know if their little plan will work.”

“In broad outline, yes,” replied the professor. “The gas release from even small explosions should be enough to create a bubble column sufficient to create negative buoyancy in a destroyer-sized vessel.”

“Meaning it will sink?” Tyrell assumed English was Chew’s first language, but it was difficult to tell sometimes.

“As if it suddenly tried to float on air. Our scale model experiments show a 90% success rate. Ignition of the gas by the explosion, however, is more problematic. The methane/air mix has to be just right to produce combustion.”

“We’ll settle for 90%. Write it up and let’s send the report to our Eastern friends.”

“With another month of research…”

“No,” Tyrell interrupted, “Professor, I appreciate the effort, but we just don’t have the time. The Allies are getting ready to come calling and we need our other little project to take precedence.”

Chew hesitated as if to argue the point and then sighed, “You’re right. Well the puzzle will be here when I can get back to it. In the meantime,” Chew smiled a knowing smile, “Let’s check in on our ‘baby’”. He turned and walked through an adjacent doorway while fishing in his trouser pocket.

“Here we are,” said Chew as he unlocked a steel door and swung it wide. Resting in a cradle in the center of the room lay a cylindrical device approximately six feet long. “We can only stay a short time. The device has minimal shielding right now.”

“How did the small scale field test go?” Tyrell asked glancing around the lead lined walls warily.

“Wonderfully. Here is the report from Mr. Steele.”

Tyrell glanced at the half-crumpled piece of paper Chew handed him.

Professor Chew,

Please forward this note to Mr. Tyrell since I am unsure of his current location.

Mr. Tyrell,

I am pleased to report our scientists have achieved a major success in detonating our first device. The display was spectacular, the most terrifying and beautiful sight that I have ever seen. Although we underestimated it's destructive force and consequently lost some minor personnel and a few small Siberian villages were burnt to ashes, we have been successful where all the major powers of the world have failed. On the bright side our medical team now has first hand experience in treatment of radiation burns. All that remains is for our engineers to devise a way to package this device for delivery. They have ensured me that this task will be completed within days.

Surely countries will pay handsomely for such a weapon! Congratulations Mr. Tyrell, you are well on your way to becoming the most influential man the world has ever seen. It is an honor to be part of your organization.

-Al Steel, Esq. Somewhere in Northern Siberia

“When did this come in?” Tyrell asked carefully, trying to keep his voice neutral.

“Oh, yesterday afternoon I believe. I was going to run up and tell you, but the results of the hydrates experiment needed to be confirmed and…”

“Never mind,” Tyrell interrupted. After years of experience, Tyrell was used to the Professor getting distracted. Most of those distractions bore very profitable fruit, so he slowly counted to ten before continuing in an almost normal voice “Are you ready for Phase 2?”

“Yes. I would prefer a full scale test to…”

Tyrell sighed with suppressed exasperation, “I know you would professor, but it is impossible. The small-scale Siberian test was bad enough, but there is no way to cover up a full scale detonation. We don’t have our own private country, you know. A full-scale test is going to vaporize a large chunk of someone else’s real estate.”

Chew cocked his head slightly and looked at Tyrell, “We could have our own country, you know, Eldon,” he said softly. “With this much power we could take over any place we wanted.”

Tyrell gave Chew a hard look, “Napoleon once showed off his troops to Talleyrand. He reportedly said, ‘See the bayonets of my troops, how they gleam!’ Talleyrand replied, ‘You can do anything with a bayonet, Sire, except sit upon it.’  We have a very powerful bayonet, but it doesn’t buy us a place to sit.”

“But we could force Germany to cede us territory. We could force anyone to give us what we want!”

“No. It is tempting, but…no. We don’t hold the ground we stand on nor do we have enough soldiers to occupy even a small city. Not to mention the ones we do have are only loyal for the life of the contract. That ain’t the basis of a real army. The minute either the Allies or the Germans think we are more dangerous alive than dead, we will be dead in short order. They won’t understand a threat to melt a city. They won’t believe it. Power on this scale is simply not real to anyone yet. But once it is used, no one will be allowed to have it except the Great Powers. They are certainly not going to let us keep it and take our word we will play nice. No. They will come with everything they have to take it…unless they think we will sell it to them. And that is just what we are going to do. We are going to take our money and run and hope the d*mn fools don’t kill us all with their little war.”

“So which side have you decided wins the war,” asked Chew jokingly.

“Why none of course!” replied Tyrell brightly. “Why should we end the war? We are making, pardon the pun, a killing off it. In fact, I see no reason to limit bidders to the Allies and the Germans. What will the French for example pay for our shiny ‘bayonet’?”

“What can the French offer?” said Chew doubtfully, “The Germans already have their country.”

“Title to land!” said Tyrell enthusiastically, “If the Germans win, they’ve already given us several nice stretches of France and we are well off. If the Allies win, they’ll ignore any deal we have with the Germans. But what if the French have also signed over the land? After all, it’s not like the Brits or Americans are going to be allowed to keep France. No. They would have to recognize the right of the French to sell their own land.”

“Sounds logical, which means it can’t be legal.”

“Legal, smeagal. That’s why we pay Mr. Steel so much. All we need is a reasonably legitimate claim and it will take a decade for the international courts to sort out. By that time we will have figured out something more permanent or have moved operations somewhere else.”

“I don’t know. What’s to prevent the Allies from getting the device one day and dropping it in on us the next?”

“Because I don’t intend to give them the whole thing at one time. We’ll sell it a piece at a time to the highest bidders and see what happens.”

“The French already have two of my spare parts, you know.”

“Yes,” said Tyrell coldly, “they will have to pay for goods already ‘delivered’. We’ll have to see about that. In the meantime, start Phase 2 and get the pieces packed for shipment.”

“I hope you know what you are doing, Eldon.”

“So do I, Professor. So do I..”

June 1944. Blue ‘Shroom Club. Normandy, France.

Tyrell had just gotten comfortable behind his desk with a nice cup of real coffee in hand when the knocking started. “Crap,” he muttered, “Come in!”

Mr. Norne Anderson, President of Norne Anderson, LLP, Tyrell’s audit firm, entered the office with a sheaf of papers in hand. “Mr. Tyrell! I need to speak with you about the audit, sir.”

Tyrell suppressed a sigh and smiled, “What can I do for you Mr. Anderson?”

“Sir, I found some irregularities associated with the funding for something called ‘Project Ragarnok’. It appears to be consuming a vast amount of corporate resources without any return on investment anticipated.”

“Oh, that’s not strictly true, Mr. Anderson,” said Tyrell as he leaned back in his chair. His foot presses a concealed button twice while he formed his reply. “We just haven’t placed the profit projections in our forecast.”

“But, sir! The stockholders are going to be very upset with the amount you’ve spent on R&D with nothing to show for it.”

“Norne, old friend, why don’t you let me worry about the profitability of our little project. As to the stockholders, they will be pleasantly surprised at the third quarter profits this year. I guarantee it!”

A soft knock was heard at the door. Tyrell got up and opened the door. An attractive brunette with minimal clothing stood in the doorway. “Now, why don’t you and Fifi here,” who let out a soft giggle, “Go talk about the French weather for awhile. I’ve got a great deal to do before our reception tonight.”

Anderson was having difficult forming words, no doubt due to the rush of blood away from his brain and to the lower parts of his body. He said, “Well I really should get back to…”

“Nonsense!” said Tyrell jovially, “All work and no play makes Norne a dull boy! The books aren’t going anywhere and it will do you a world of good to relax.” Anderson looked a little unsure until Fifi grabbed his arm and began whispering in his ear. His face matched the scarlet lace of Fif’s outfit, but he probably was too distracted to notice. “That takes care of that,” Tyrell thought to himself. By the time Fifi let him loose, he would be lucky to add two plus two successfully. If that didn’t work, Tyrell planned to tell Fifi about Norne’s connection to the SS. That ought to eliminate the problem permanently. “Not as much fun as a shark tank, but less expensive,” he thought with a smile.

Tyrell shook his head as he began dressing for the reception. “Now,” he thought, “Let’s see if I can still swim with the sharks.”

Author’s note:  The following is fiction and none of the characters are real.  Their experiences are based on the letters and recollections of those who survived.

Chapter 10

“The Thousand-Mile Stare”

June 6, 1944.  Off the coast of Normandy, France.

Pvt. William Smith tried not to think about a lot of things at the same time.  The first was the constant howl of artillery going and coming over his head.  The giant naval guns of the Allied invasion fleet spit shells the size of small cars toward the German positions trying to knock them out or at least keep their heads down.  The German 88s, firing from a considerable height advantage on the cliffs weren’t trying to reach their naval tormenters.  They were desperately trying to kill the assault boats and all the members of the 29^th Infantry Division before they could hit Omaha Beach.  The more Pvt. Smiths they could get in the water, the less they faced on the land. 

Second on his list of things not to think about was breakfast.  The scrambled eggs served at the pre-dawn breakfast were a rare treat.  They normally got the powdered version.  They had been delicious going down.  He didn’t think they would be nearly as tasty on the way back up.  With that thought, the Higgins boat lurched from a near miss and rolled in swell.  The rolling was the worst.  Pitching up and down he could take, but rolling was bad.  One of the soldiers to his right decided to return his breakfast.  Packed in tight, there was no where to duck to avoid the mess.  Curses answered the spew, but it was hardly the first and wouldn’t be the last.  “I might be next if this keeps up,” he thought.  Which brought him to the last thing he tried hard not to think about – his feet.

They were cold and wet inside his boots.  The bottom of the Higgins boat was a nasty puddle of seawater, vomit, oil and some stuff nobody could identify.  No matter what it was, the result was cold and wet.  He didn’t mind being cold or wet, but both together while being shelled in a leaky d*mn cracker box just seemed downright rude.

Smith was a farm boy from the mountains of Southwest Virginia who had never seen the ocean until they shipped out.  He swore that if he ever got back home, he would stay in the mountains and never set foot in the sea again.

“A Company!  Get ready!” yelled the Lieutenant.  He was holding up a hand as the landing craft lurched to a stop on the beach.  “Let’s go!” the LT said as the ramp of the Higgins dropped.  A storm of bullets answered as tracers whipped past Smith’s head.

“Sh*t!” he yelled and pushed forward.  He had to get out of this box!  As he cleared the boat, he went off the side of the landing ramp and into the cold, cold ocean.  Pvt. Smith was 5’ 4” in his combat boots.  With pack, weapon, and his share of squad equipment, he dropped into the water like a well-armed rock.  A moment of panic passed quickly as his life vest brought him back to the surface and a wave pushed him closer.  He got his feet in the sand and started slogging toward the beach - cursing the Germans, the Army, and the ocean. 

Smith staggered forward as German machine guns filled the air.  The “Zip-Zip-Zip-Zip” of near misses sent him onto his belly and he crawled out of the surf.  A huge explosion picked him up threw him to the left as an 88 or a short round from the bombardment hit close.  He shook his head and retrieved his helmet.  Half the chin strap had been sliced away by the blast.  He slapped the helmet on his head hoping General Charlie Gerhardt, the 29^th’s Commander, didn’t show up.  He hated an unbuttoned chinstrap.  Smith almost giggled with the thought.  Then his brain started to recover from the blast concussion and kicked his survival instincts back into gear.  The machine guns had found him.

Sand spurted up all around him as he crawled desperately for the seawall further up the beach.  He’d almost made it when somebody smacked his calf with a baseball bat.  The mean SOB must have set it on fire first because his lower leg burned like hellfire.  He kept crawling thinking, “Oh, sh*t!  I’m hit!”  On the heels of the thought was another, “I AM GOING TO KILL YOU SOBs FOR THIS!”

Smith managed to make it into the shelter of the seawall and rolled over to inspect his leg.  He almost fainted because the minute he looked at the wound the pain doubled.  A neat hole through the calf muscle was bleeding like a hog at slaughter.  Cursing under his breath, he snatched out his first aid kit.  He dumped sulfa powder on the wound and slapped on his field dressing.  Then he noticed that his right arm was beginning to stiffen up.  He looked down and realized the sleeve was ripped and blood dripped from several shrapnel wounds.  “Crap!” he thought.  He looked around for the first time and realized that only a few other soldiers were crouched next to the seawall and he didn’t know any of them.  “Where’s the rest of the squad?” he thought.  Then he looked back to the land craft and realized they were right there – bobbing in the surf, spread across the beach, and burning in the remains of the landing craft.  “That’s what the 88 hit” he thought, “Jesus!” he whispered.

It was a long day for Pvt. Smith and the remains of A Company.  They never made it past the seawall on D-Day, but the second wave of the attack was coming in and they were determined to reach the top of the Normandy cliffs.

Sgt. Jefferson Davis McCoy felt the warm spread of urine slide down his leg as the landing craft worked its way to shore.  McCoy wasn’t scared, well no more than in any other battle he had been in, but he was a practical man.  Between the sea sloshing over the side and the contents of half the men’s stomachs, he didn’t figure anyone would mind.  In the frantic rush to board the landing craft he had forgotten to go before they left the ship.  “Won’t matter much,” he thought, “Probably be the last warm water I’m in until we hit Paris.”  This was the McCoy’s second visit to Europe.  He had been a private in the trenches of World War I with “Black Jack” Pershing when the 29^th fought in the “War-to-End-All-Wars”.  “Didn’t work too well did it?” he asked himself.

“What was that Sgt.?” asked a baby-faced private next to him.

“Nothin’, Nicely,” he said gruffly, “You watch for the LT to signal and the we go.  You got that?”

“Yes Sergeant!”

“Good.”  McCoy went back to his own thoughts.  His Granddaddy had told him all about the War.  Of course he meant “The War of Northern Aggression” or in politer circles, “The Recent Unpleasantness”.  McCoy had been raised on tales of Stonewall Jackson and his brigaded of “Foot Cavalry” and how they had out-marched and out fought the “D*mn Yankees” – right up to Gettysburg.  Granddaddy didn’t talk about Gettysburg or any of the battles after.

McCoy had fought his own wars now and had plenty of his own tales.  If he lived through this one, it was going to be a miracle.  He did take a little bit of comfort from the fact that his 116^th Brigade was the descendent of his Granddaddy’s “Stonewall Brigade”.  He took pride in the nickname “Stonewallers” they had picked up even while he didn’t put much stock by it.  “We’ll see how the boys do when the Devil comes to breakfast,” he thought.       

The time for old thoughts and old wars was past.  The war of now was here.  The ramp dropped and he could hear shouts of “29^th!  Let’s Go!” from up and down the beach.  He jumped off the landing ramp and made his way to the shelter of a burning landing craft stuck on the beach.  “Warm!” he thought.  “At least I’m warm for a minute.”  Then he pushed away and pushed through the surf.  He stopped a couple times to grab soldiers up by  the collar and get them moving up the beach.  “MOVE!” he yelled, “We can’t stay here!  We have got to get up the beach!  MOVE!”

By some miracle he made it to the bottom of the cliff and watched as the ladders and ropes went up.  “All right.  You Kraut bast*&#s had your turn!” he thought.  “Now it’s our turn!”   He looked behind him and realized that a lot of bodies with blue and gray patches lay on the sand or rolled in the surf.  He said softly, “Jesus.”

Behind the seawall, Pvt. Smith and the others heard the shouts and watched the second wave storm ashore.  Those that could raised themselves and began firing to keep the German gunners heads down.  “29^th!  Let’s Go!” they shouted as they fired and waved the men on.

And they did.  From Omaha Beach to the Rhine they went and they never took a step back.  Not even the German offensive in the Arden, the Battle of the Bulge, could make them run.  They paid for that journey.  The town of Bedford, Virginia lost 22 of her sons on D-Day.  The single worst one day loss by any town in a single battle in the entire war.  On the National D-Day Memorial in Bedford, you will find plaques to the First Infantry Division and the Fifth and Second Ranger Battalion who went up those cliffs with the 29^th.

The Blue and Gray was deactivated on 17  January 1946.  But that’s not the end of the story.

On 6 June 1984, at a ceremony commemorating the 40th anniversary of the Normandy landings, Secretary of Defense Casper Weinburger announced the reactivation of the 29th Blue and Gray Division.  The new 29^th Infantry Division (Light) became the first and only light infantry division in the Army National Guard. 

Since it’s reactivation, the 29^th has served at home and abroad.  Helping flood victims, peace-keeping in Bosnia, guarding a post-911 homefront, and heading into harm’s way in Afghanistan and Iraq. 

Old Stonewall’d be proud. 

Twenty-Niners Past, Present, and Future:  29^th Let’s Go!