forward momentum, dropping them into a hover over the thick grass of the field. Harry could see cows gallumphing away in fear. A good sign. The chopper assumed its landing attitude, with the nose elevated so that the rear wheels would touch down first.
The chief and his two offsiders stood at the rear door, scanning the ground closely.
“Clear left!”
“Clear right!”
“Clear in the arse, guv!”
They began the last few meters of their descent. Nobody was praying now. Everyone had their warrior’s mask firmly in place beneath the greasepaint and night vision goggles. Harry hooked an arm through his pack, getting ready to go. In his headphones, the copilot counted them in to touchdown.
“…four, three, two, one,
down.
”
The front wheels struck ground. The chopper jumped forward a meter or two, then came to rest.
As soon as he felt the soft bump, Harry was up. They all rose as one, some more gracefully than others, who were caught off-balance and wobbled slightly as they hauled up their packs. Everyone dropped into an old-fashioned runner’s stance: legs bent, knees flexing, ready for the starter’s pistol. The chief pulled on a lever, dropping the tailgate onto the ground.
“Go, go, go.”
The members of the heavy-weapon team ran out first, dropping to the ground, ready to start laying fire on the enemy if he had somehow gone undetected. Two by two, the remainder of the troop charged out behind them.
“Good luck, Your Highness,” Anjela Claudel said.
“Vive la France,”
Harry replied.
They moved out into the night.
6
D-DAY + 8. 11 MAY 1944. 0341 HOURS.
DONZENAC MISSILE FACILITY, SOUTH-CENTRAL FRANCE.
No plan survives contact with the enemy. Harry was going to have that tattooed on his arse if he survived this right fucking teddy bear’s picnic.
He had twelve men to protect thirty-four German rocket scientists from an estimated eighty or ninety SS troopers, all of whom seemed to have gone to Plan B: kill everyone in sight. Harry himself was holed up in some sort of canteen on the second floor of the residential complex, with Nazis above and below him, and the rest of the squadron cut off on the other side of the H-shaped building.
The crash of small arms and Mills bombs did not let up. The scientists huddled together behind a makeshift barricade at the very rear of the mess hall, where Anjela Claudel and three of Harry’s men, who would have been better used up here on the firing line, guarded them. Harry crouched behind an upturned table, a solid oaken slab of cover that protected them from the German Mausers. For now. There was only so much damage it could take, however, before it was reduced to splinters.
“Bit of a cock-up then, guv,” Sergeant Major St. Clair commented.
“Just a fucking bit,” Harry agreed.
Captain Ronsard shrugged theatrically. “Such is life,
non
?”
There’d been no warning that two companies of
SS Panzergrenadiers
were posted at the residence, and before the two sides got themselves sorted out there were probably forty or fifty casualties in the mêlée. Now Harry’s squadron was split over three floors, in a dozen different rooms. What looked like two full-strength platoons of Waffen-SS were blocking them from linking up with the other squadron, and tac net was blaring warnings of a battalion-sized enemy force racing toward Donzenac from Tulle. Gunships had peeled away to attack them, but there would be more to follow.
Harry had already ordered six of the Chinooks to depart with his wounded troopers and those captured rocket scientists they had managed to get out. But he needed to see the remaining prisoners away, too, because numbered among them were two of the Reich’s foremost missile researchers, perhaps even their best: Wernher von Braun and Major General Walter Dornberger. Both had worked for the United States after the war, in his time. Since this was common knowledge now, the fact that they were still alive spoke volumes for their importance to
The chief and his two offsiders stood at the rear door, scanning the ground closely.
“Clear left!”
“Clear right!”
“Clear in the arse, guv!”
They began the last few meters of their descent. Nobody was praying now. Everyone had their warrior’s mask firmly in place beneath the greasepaint and night vision goggles. Harry hooked an arm through his pack, getting ready to go. In his headphones, the copilot counted them in to touchdown.
“…four, three, two, one,
down.
”
The front wheels struck ground. The chopper jumped forward a meter or two, then came to rest.
As soon as he felt the soft bump, Harry was up. They all rose as one, some more gracefully than others, who were caught off-balance and wobbled slightly as they hauled up their packs. Everyone dropped into an old-fashioned runner’s stance: legs bent, knees flexing, ready for the starter’s pistol. The chief pulled on a lever, dropping the tailgate onto the ground.
“Go, go, go.”
The members of the heavy-weapon team ran out first, dropping to the ground, ready to start laying fire on the enemy if he had somehow gone undetected. Two by two, the remainder of the troop charged out behind them.
“Good luck, Your Highness,” Anjela Claudel said.
“Vive la France,”
Harry replied.
They moved out into the night.
6
D-DAY + 8. 11 MAY 1944. 0341 HOURS.
DONZENAC MISSILE FACILITY, SOUTH-CENTRAL FRANCE.
No plan survives contact with the enemy. Harry was going to have that tattooed on his arse if he survived this right fucking teddy bear’s picnic.
He had twelve men to protect thirty-four German rocket scientists from an estimated eighty or ninety SS troopers, all of whom seemed to have gone to Plan B: kill everyone in sight. Harry himself was holed up in some sort of canteen on the second floor of the residential complex, with Nazis above and below him, and the rest of the squadron cut off on the other side of the H-shaped building.
The crash of small arms and Mills bombs did not let up. The scientists huddled together behind a makeshift barricade at the very rear of the mess hall, where Anjela Claudel and three of Harry’s men, who would have been better used up here on the firing line, guarded them. Harry crouched behind an upturned table, a solid oaken slab of cover that protected them from the German Mausers. For now. There was only so much damage it could take, however, before it was reduced to splinters.
“Bit of a cock-up then, guv,” Sergeant Major St. Clair commented.
“Just a fucking bit,” Harry agreed.
Captain Ronsard shrugged theatrically. “Such is life,
non
?”
There’d been no warning that two companies of
SS Panzergrenadiers
were posted at the residence, and before the two sides got themselves sorted out there were probably forty or fifty casualties in the mêlée. Now Harry’s squadron was split over three floors, in a dozen different rooms. What looked like two full-strength platoons of Waffen-SS were blocking them from linking up with the other squadron, and tac net was blaring warnings of a battalion-sized enemy force racing toward Donzenac from Tulle. Gunships had peeled away to attack them, but there would be more to follow.
Harry had already ordered six of the Chinooks to depart with his wounded troopers and those captured rocket scientists they had managed to get out. But he needed to see the remaining prisoners away, too, because numbered among them were two of the Reich’s foremost missile researchers, perhaps even their best: Wernher von Braun and Major General Walter Dornberger. Both had worked for the United States after the war, in his time. Since this was common knowledge now, the fact that they were still alive spoke volumes for their importance to
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