Angels Fallen (2 page)

A dry wind sliced its way through the sprawling old growth forest, the sun having set an hour before. Captain Hans Dieter knew his enemy lurked before him waiting, watching, just as a jungle cat readies itself before striking on its helpless prey.

He was a man of medi
um height, light brown hair, and piercing blue eyes.  A dirty and disheveled army uniform clung to his unwashed body; on his head rested a leather officer’s cap tilted to the side.

Dieter strained his eyes in the night’s darkness
as he absently pulled at a week’s worth of stubble that graced his chin. 

Suddenly a flare burst
upon the night’s sky followed by a burst of automatic fire no more than 500 meters forward of his position.

“Here they come,”
Dieter shouted to the fourteen weary souls that constituted the remains of his command.

Cigarettes were quickly extinguished
as the men took up defensive positions on his left and right.

From the enemy’s position came the
high-pitched roar of a single diesel engine.

Within minutes
Dieter and his troops viewed two round beams of light weaving in between hundred-year-old birch trees—the vehicle speeding towards their position. 

Dieter had no desire to see the inside of a Russian prison camp. “Open fire,” he commanded.

Fourteen weapons heeded his call. The soft thud of lead as it impacted sheet metal and shattered glass signaled their limited success as the vehicle still pushed forward, weaving in and out of control before crashing into a cluster of trees only meters from the Germans’ position.

Dieter scrambled to the front of the truck
, now laying on its right side, its two left side wheels still spinning as if struggling to right itself.

Looking to his left, he viewed his men expertly mov
e to encircle the truck. When in position one of his men motioned toward the driver’s cab. Dieter nodded. Still crouching, he pushed his weapon up and over the truck’s hood and fired on full automatic, spraying the front cab from side to side. He ejected the empty cartridge in one smooth motion as he sprung up, inserted a new cartridge, and crept silently along the truck’s undercarriage using it as cover until he reached its rear.

Using hand signals
, Dieter motioned for two of his men to take up positions on each side of the truck. He counted to three before casting aside the truck’s heavy canvas flap. Streaks of moonlight aided him as he peered in. Dozens of small wooden crates lay scattered about the bodies of seven bullet-riddled corpses.

Dieter closed the flap in disgust. “We killed some of our own soldiers,” he
said aloud. Opening the flap once more, he used his flashlight to better view the carnage, focusing its narrow beam on the bodies nearest to him.

Three of the dead soldiers lay clad in heavy black woolen uniforms, white piping lin
ing the edges of their uniform, the notorious white Deaths Head emblazoned boldly upon their shirt collars.  Not German soldiers in Dieter’s mind
but the dreaded S
S
—
politicalsoldier
s
—
fanatics.

He aimed the flashlight’s beam
to the middle of the truck’s cargo be
d
—
the uniforms of the remaining dead required closer inspection. As he drew near he noticed they appeared more ceremonial than fit for a combat soldier. Dressed in fanciful black baggy silk pantaloons that gave way to yellow stockings and soft black leather shoes, a red woolen shirt covered the chest area topped with a golden breastplate that bore the crest of a charging lion emblazoned on its face.

Each belonged on a parade ground, not a battlefield,
Dieter thought as his flashlights beam moved from body to body.
 

Dieter nodded to
Private Selig who now stood over him.  A puzzled look graced his face. “Captain,” he said matter of factly, using the tip of his machine pistol to point to one of the smartly attired soldiers. “The ones with the fancy uniforms all have their hands tied behind their backs.” 

Dieter wondered why he hadn’t noticed something so obvious. “Here, help me,” he said to the private.
They managed to ease the closest body over.

Metal handcuffs tightly creased the dead soldier’s wrists. “Handcuffs
?  Why are they in handcuffs?” Dieter said aloud.

“Let’s flip
the rest over.” 

As
Dieter grabbed the second body he heard a soft cry in response.

“This one’s alive,”
he said. “Let’s move him outside into the night air.”

Once outside, Dieter gently laid the soldier on a
rain slicker. 

One of
Dieter’s men thoughtfully wet a piece of cloth with water from his canteen, dabbing it to the soldier’s lips.

The soldier managed a slight smile in thanks.

Dieter leaned over the soldier as he gingerly wiped blood from the soldier’s mouth. “Who are you my friend?” 

The soldier coughed several times. Dieter quickly positioned
the soldier on his side so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood. Pools of crimson now spotted the ground beside the soldier’s head.

Dieter leaned down beside the soldier once more. “Your time is near my friend,” he said softly. “What were you doing in this God forsaken place?
Where were you coming from?”

The sol
dier struggled to speak. “I am…,” he replied in German with a heavy Swiss accent, “an emissary for my Pope.” The blood flowed more freely now. “I must deliver… I must. I have many secrets in the truck.”  His eyes rolled back in his head before he could finish.

Dieter shook his head in disgust mumbling a short prayer in response.

With time racing against them Dieter turned his attention to the remaining bodies, searching them for wallets, identity tags, or photographs of loved ones. He searched for anything that could assist them in identifying the men. After several fruitless minutes, nothing was found.

Dieter
ordered his men to strip the uniforms from the dead hoping their true identity lay beneath their garments. After several minutes the naked bodies lay side-by-side.  Only a crude tattoo of a black orthodox cross was visible overeach soldier’s right breas
t
—
the Latin words
Filiolus Humilis Servo
scrawled beneath each
.

G
od’s humble servant,
Dieter mumbled to himsel
f
—
his Catholic upbringing betraying him.

Speed was of the essence. No doubt the Russians were just as curious about the truck’s fate.

Flashlight in hand, Dieter probed about the truck’s cargo one last time.

On each wooden crate,
a hastily painted German Eagle stood side by side with a royal crest—the crest matching the crest on the breastplates of the dead soldiers.

Amid the darkened interior Dieter spied one crate whose contents lay partially spilled about.  

Curiosity edged him on. Dieter knelt closer to the box for inspection, ripping off its remaining wood slats.

H
is eyes grew wide upon viewing its contents.

Brilliant sunsh
ine flooded through the bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Hans Dieter indulged in the view his fifty-two-acre property afforded him:  lush rolling green hills, interspersed with patches of majestic oak and maple, and numerous marble statues of Greek Gods and Goddesses placed discreetly about the property.
My little Versailles on the Hudson
he would frequently say to his friends
.

Hans turned to the reflection in the window before him, the figure requiring no acknowledgement. His silver mane was now almost entirely gone.  Nothing but empty eyes stared back at him. He turn
ed away in disgust. The doctor’s prognosis said it was only a matter of days or possibly weeks until he would receive a visitor he had evaded for some eighty plus years.

The soft metallic click of a spade hitting rock reminded him that he was not alone. Hans looked down to where one of the estate’s gardeners worked diligently i
n the prized Lincoln and Grant rose beds, pruning the same roses his long-departed wife had originally planted.

He
stood in the same spot some 40 years earlier—spying on her as she labored in the midday sun. Surely her beauty outshone the roses she was planting. He remembered how her silky, long brown hair clung to her skin as she turned to see him standing in the window, pushing back the straw hat she wore, waving to him, head tilted to one side, a radiant smile gracing her face.

Suddenly the
pleasant memory faded and another slid violently into its place. One that took place some 40 years before when she died in an apparent robbery attempt—at least that’s how the New York City Detectives recorded it.
Another robbery gone astray
. But all Hans could remember was his life-long love dying in his arms—taken from him in a filthy Chinatown alley.

They were after
him, that he was sure of. The message of her death clearly addressed to him.

“
Bastards,”
he said aloud, his rage increasing
.
He thought they had a deal.
It was an unspoken dea
l
—
but still a deal!

H
e grabbed the window’s wood frame to steady himself. “I would give anything to see her beautiful face again,” he murmured.

A slight smile now graced his face at the thought of his wife looking down upon him, telling him to hush, that it was
n’t his fault.

“Everything I own for just one more minute of her s
inging off key, or the spontaneous slow dancing that would break out in our living room,” he said silently—the bedroom about him still empty.  “Just provide me mere seconds of her breathing softly on my chest in a restful sleep after making love.”

Gold had killed his wife
,
millions of dollars worth of gold. He used to think it was cursed.  After his wife’s murder—
he was sure of it
. The memory of her as she lay helpless in his arms, gasping for her last breath, her eyes lovingly searching his as if he could make the pain go away as the blood continued to ebb from the corner of her mouth.

Her beloved Hans
would save her. He always knew what to do.

The frustration of not being able to help her haunted him to this day. He never meant to place her in jeopardy
—
not her
.

He lovingly closed her eyes after she
had silently slipped away, pulling her lifeless body tight to his chest, holding her for what seemed like hours, rocking her back and forth until the paramedics gingerly separated them.

From that day forward he vowed to seek revenge.
He swore it.
He knew who they were. For years they had tormented him—hounded him.

His day for revenge was clos
e
—
very close. They had stolen something very dear from him and he was about to do the same to them.

But his revenge would rock the foundation of their empire.

AFTERNOON THUNDERSTORMS
rumbled in from the west. Dark clouds followed. Raindrops began to pelt the open window where Hans stood.  A clap of thunder snapped him out of a drug–induced haze in time to view two expensive cars slowly approach from the estate’s main drive. 

For the first time in a week Hans felt the genuine will to rise from the safety of his bed
, seeking one last glimpse of his estate before his death, which he felt would be soon. Eyeing his Rolex he was shocked to see that thirty minutes had elapsed, having stood at the window longer than anticipated.

FATHER DAN FLAHERTY
quietly entered the bedroom brushing water droplets from his coat. He had expected to see his friend bedridden. A look of surprise spread across his face when he saw Hans holding onto the windows frame.  “Hans get your ass in bed before you collapse were you stand,” he said in a sarcastic, heavy Irish brogue. “Don’t rush your death.  We all know the Lord can’t wait to meet you.”

Hans smiled at seeing his old friend and confidant.

Father Dan was tall and slim; his face aged from years of hard-drinking. He was also the principal of the local high school, plying the dead language of ancient Greek to the children of well-heeled parents.

“All right you Irish Mick,” Hans replied
. “Keep your tongue and save your words for my eulogy.  For a so-called man of the cloth you’re the best damn liar I know.”

Father Dan laughed heartily
in reply.

Swallowing his pride
Hans allowed Father Dan to take his arm, assisting him back to his bed. “All right, all right, don’t make me laugh. I have enough morphine running through my veins to keep me laughing for two days once I start.” 

H
ans leaned back against the bed’s metal headboard rubbing his legs in the hope of increasing his circulation. “Dan, I’m obliged that you could show up here today on such short notice and listen to a story of my youth,” Hans said, his voice trailing off.

Father Dan simply nodded to his friend, well aware that the doctor’s prognosis gave him a
week tops. “It’s not one of your nasty Nazi war stories where you are once again the big war hero is it?” he replied in jest.  “Because if it is, I would rather go listen to old Mrs. Perkins speak about the ghosts’ that reside in her bedroom.”

Hans leaned over to open a draw
er on his nightstand, producing a twenty-four-year- old bottle of Irish whiskey, holding it up for Father Dan to admire. “The old witch couldn’t supply you with this, could she now?”

Father Dan eyed the bottle appreciatively. “You old codger.
You are the devil in disguise. Where did you get the bottle? Or is that considered some type of miracle drug the doctor has discovered?”  

“
The cleaning lady brings it to me the lovely charmer that she is.”

Hans picked
up the cordless phone beside his bed and dialed a two-digit number to reach his duty nurse stationed just outside his door, a recently converted anteroom.  ”Sissy, I know he’s out there. Could you please send him in?” 

Hans
beamed with pride upon seeing his only child enter the room. “Jim, my boy, I’m glad to see you again. Please come in and greet Father Dan for you two are about to become partners in a little venture of mine.” 

At 6’2’, 210 pounds, Jim proudly maintained his physique from his
Naval Academy days.  This combined with his rugged features were enough to keep many a night occupied. He had recently chosen to take his retirement from the Navy due to the unfortunate circumstances surrounding his father’s ill health. Still single, he recently ended his third engagement in as many years. Unfortunately for Hans, grandchildren would not to be in the picture before his death.

Jim grabbed his father’s extended hand in greeting before deciding a hug would be best. “What’s this all about, Dad?
You and Father Dan haven’t been drinking already have you?” Jim chided.

“No, I haven
’t been drinking and no, I’m not delusional,” Hans spat out in reply, waiting for yet another sarcastic response to follow. Satisfied they were indeed done, he chose to continue. “I just want you gentlemen to sit back and listen to a little story I have. That wouldn’t be asking too much now would it?  Humor an old man whose time has come.” Looking to Jim, he points to a chair occupying the corner of his room.  “It’s a story about a time some sixty plus years ago, so I would advise you to get comfortable, son.”

Hans pause
s for a moment as if already reliving his past, before pointing to the bottle that occupied a space next to his medications spread out on the table. “Would you both join me in the consumption of a good Irish whiskey?”

The
crystal glasses clinked as Jim passed them one by one to Hans, him pouring generous glasses of the Irish.

Hans raised its amber contents
waiting until Jim and Dan followed suit. “
Prost
,” he said, drinking the whiskey with one long savoring gulp before banging his empty glass clumsily down on a table filled with his medications.

“Good.  O
n to more important matters,” he began with an air of seriousness. “This is going to be a short but lucrative tale for you both. I must swear you both to an oath of secrecy.  Only Jim’s mother—
God rest her soul
—and myself know the full story. So this must never be spoken of again.”

Both
nodded to Hans’s simple demand. 

“Good. 
Now it begins,” he said.  “And remember, only when my story ends,
will your real adventure begin
.”

Hans leaned back once more.

“It was April 1945, Berlin.  The war was in its final hours………”