night.
But the French had sprinkled smaller fortifications—
petits ouvrages
—through the portion of forest that extended across the border. These, too, had to be destroyed to ensure the flawless rollout of the Blitzkrieg. Klaus’s ability was useless for clearing timberland. But he had no equal for clearing fortifications.
Klaus hefted a pack from the overloaded car. He checked the contents. Thirty kilograms of PETN were sufficient to tear open the heaviest
ouvrage
like a tin can. But when detonated
inside
the steel-plated walls, it would turn the fort into a meat grinder.
Gretel joined him as he double-checked the gauge on his battery harness. She pointed. “That way. Follow the gully until you reach the clearing. You’ll find the fort in the crook between two hills.”
“How are you feeling?” Klaus asked. “Do you need a new battery yet?” She didn’t say anything.
Klaus had advocated a plan where Gretel stayed behind, away from the battlefront, relaying her directions via the Twins. But in order to plumb the next twelve hours and shepherd them safely to the other side, she first had to twine her future with their own. Or so she insisted.
Twined futures hadn’t helped Rudolf.
“Why don’t you stay with the truck? It’ll be safer than—”
She raised a hand, cutting him off. She cocked her head. A moment later the rustle of underbrush and a muffled “Damn it!” drifted out of the silent forest.
“Thistle,” she said. Klaus sighed.
A stream of invective preceded Buhler all the way back to the truck. “Crazy fucking mongrel whore,” it concluded.
They regrouped. Reinhardt crushed out his cigarette. Buhler took Kammler’s leash again. “Stay here,” he ordered the driver. The pale-faced zealot saluted.
They tromped off along the gully that Gretel had pointed out. Klaus led with his sister at his side. Behind them followed Reinhardt, Buhler, and Kammler. Runoff from recent spring rains splashed beneath their boots. They pushed through a thicket the hard way—Reinhardt and Kammler were too wound up on amphetamines to perform subtleties of Willenskräfte.
They crawled on their stomachs just under the lip of the ravine as the underbrush gave way to a tiny clearing. An
ouvrage
loomed before them in the shadows. It looked like an inverted breadbox pimpled along the top with retractable machine gun turrets.
Klaus adjusted the straps over his shoulders. He reached for the clasp on his battery harness.
“Wait,” Gretel whispered. “Let the sentries pass.”
She patted him on the side. He looked at her. Occasionally, when meeting her gaze, he saw something coiled up in her madness, steely and cold. But to night the moonlight stilled the depths behind her eyes. She smiled. A real smile, with even a hint of warmth.
Her hand lingered. “Go now, brother.”
Klaus took a deep breath and plugged in. The taste of copper flooded his mouth. He crested the streambed and headed for the fort. Nine inches of steel and concrete ghosted through his eyeballs, his bones, his thumping heart. The French fortifications presented as much resistance to Klaus as an open window presented the wind.
Smaller forts like this could house a few hundred fighting men, depending on the internal configuration. This one was shaped like a T. A subterranean garrison at the long end of the central tunnel probably held two hundred men or more. But it was the middle of the night, and most of the troops slept through Klaus’s silent infiltration. He entered at the top of the T, between the two gun turrets.
He set the first demolition charge at the mouth of the tunnel sloping down to the barracks. He set the timer for one minute before moving toward the far end of the fort.
The pair of yawning soldiers up in the turret didn’t notice him until they heard the
thump
as he dropped another bundle of explosives at their feet. This one Klaus set on a fifteen-second delay.
The gunners jumped down. At first they stared at him,
But the French had sprinkled smaller fortifications—
petits ouvrages
—through the portion of forest that extended across the border. These, too, had to be destroyed to ensure the flawless rollout of the Blitzkrieg. Klaus’s ability was useless for clearing timberland. But he had no equal for clearing fortifications.
Klaus hefted a pack from the overloaded car. He checked the contents. Thirty kilograms of PETN were sufficient to tear open the heaviest
ouvrage
like a tin can. But when detonated
inside
the steel-plated walls, it would turn the fort into a meat grinder.
Gretel joined him as he double-checked the gauge on his battery harness. She pointed. “That way. Follow the gully until you reach the clearing. You’ll find the fort in the crook between two hills.”
“How are you feeling?” Klaus asked. “Do you need a new battery yet?” She didn’t say anything.
Klaus had advocated a plan where Gretel stayed behind, away from the battlefront, relaying her directions via the Twins. But in order to plumb the next twelve hours and shepherd them safely to the other side, she first had to twine her future with their own. Or so she insisted.
Twined futures hadn’t helped Rudolf.
“Why don’t you stay with the truck? It’ll be safer than—”
She raised a hand, cutting him off. She cocked her head. A moment later the rustle of underbrush and a muffled “Damn it!” drifted out of the silent forest.
“Thistle,” she said. Klaus sighed.
A stream of invective preceded Buhler all the way back to the truck. “Crazy fucking mongrel whore,” it concluded.
They regrouped. Reinhardt crushed out his cigarette. Buhler took Kammler’s leash again. “Stay here,” he ordered the driver. The pale-faced zealot saluted.
They tromped off along the gully that Gretel had pointed out. Klaus led with his sister at his side. Behind them followed Reinhardt, Buhler, and Kammler. Runoff from recent spring rains splashed beneath their boots. They pushed through a thicket the hard way—Reinhardt and Kammler were too wound up on amphetamines to perform subtleties of Willenskräfte.
They crawled on their stomachs just under the lip of the ravine as the underbrush gave way to a tiny clearing. An
ouvrage
loomed before them in the shadows. It looked like an inverted breadbox pimpled along the top with retractable machine gun turrets.
Klaus adjusted the straps over his shoulders. He reached for the clasp on his battery harness.
“Wait,” Gretel whispered. “Let the sentries pass.”
She patted him on the side. He looked at her. Occasionally, when meeting her gaze, he saw something coiled up in her madness, steely and cold. But to night the moonlight stilled the depths behind her eyes. She smiled. A real smile, with even a hint of warmth.
Her hand lingered. “Go now, brother.”
Klaus took a deep breath and plugged in. The taste of copper flooded his mouth. He crested the streambed and headed for the fort. Nine inches of steel and concrete ghosted through his eyeballs, his bones, his thumping heart. The French fortifications presented as much resistance to Klaus as an open window presented the wind.
Smaller forts like this could house a few hundred fighting men, depending on the internal configuration. This one was shaped like a T. A subterranean garrison at the long end of the central tunnel probably held two hundred men or more. But it was the middle of the night, and most of the troops slept through Klaus’s silent infiltration. He entered at the top of the T, between the two gun turrets.
He set the first demolition charge at the mouth of the tunnel sloping down to the barracks. He set the timer for one minute before moving toward the far end of the fort.
The pair of yawning soldiers up in the turret didn’t notice him until they heard the
thump
as he dropped another bundle of explosives at their feet. This one Klaus set on a fifteen-second delay.
The gunners jumped down. At first they stared at him,
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