“That is the prize,” Heilman said. “And it’s ours.”
“Lucky us,” Schulte murmured.
“Shut up,” Wolff said.
The sniper’s mouth curled in a slight smile. The man lived for a reaction and didn’t mind provoking one even from his sergeant.
The first phase of the airborne operation was for C-53 Skytrooper planes to drop American Pathfinder units onto the drop zones. These airborne troops would place radar beacons and marking lights. The lights would be different colors, designating the drop zone as friendly or hostile.
Heilman tapped an area west of Berlin. “Our regiment will drop here, five miles from Tiergarten. Farmland near Spandau. We will assemble on the west bank of the Havel and cross by raft to the Grunewald. From there, we will travel along Reichsautobahn 2 straight to Tiergarten.”
Wolff studied the map. The plan called for the regiment to stick to unpopulated areas as long as possible. Farmland, then cross the Havel River, then through the densely forested Grunewald.
After that, however, they’d be in the thick of it. Heavily populated areas. Would those infected still be there, or would they have migrated away from the city in search of fresh meat? Would areas they assumed were less populated, such as farms and forests, be relatively free of the beasts?
They were dealing with an enemy about which little was known. The ghouls fought with tooth and nail, though some carried weapons their diseased brains remembered how to use. They could see, and they were attracted to sound. They didn’t sleep and didn’t suffer from the cold. They could only be killed by destroying the brain. They had vast numbers that were increasing by the day.
Heilman swatted the map. “A battalion from the British 2nd Parachute Brigade will drop on Tempelhof Airport and secure it. The American joint 101st and 82nd Airborne battalion will seize the Berlin-Schönefeld Airport.
“We will penetrate the research facility, secure everything we can find on the project, and transport it to Tempelhof. If Tempelhof is not secure, the planes will transfer to Berlin-Schönefeld. A much longer march for us.”
The colonel explained that the Americans would provide insurance in case the British were unsuccessful. Otherwise, they would play a combat support role to the other elements and, if necessary, divert the infected to them.
“That is the plan.” Heilman checked his watch. “Prepare to synchronize. The time is 1931. We will board the planes at 0200. We expect to drop around 0500, just before dawn. Any questions?”
Wolff and several other men stood at attention. Heilman called on him.
“Oberfeldwebel Jurgen Wolff, Second Platoon, Eagle Company, Herr Oberst,” he said. “What kind of resistance are we expecting, either infected or living?”
“Reconnaissance photography shows heavy concentrations of infected in the city, Oberfeldwebel. These concentrations are constantly moving.”
Hunting, Wolff clarified in his mind.
The commander continued, “As for any Reserve Army elements still operational, that is also unknown. Anybody alive in the city is no doubt hiding. Darkness will conceal the drop from both infected and any local military elements who might interpret our actions as hostile. Otherwise, we expect hard fighting to the objective and then to the extraction point. This is why we are going in force, 1,500 men in total. A small team would be quickly destroyed.”
Satisfied, Wolff returned to his seat.
The colonel called on another man to ask his question. The sergeant only half-listened. He knew everything he needed now. Schedule, objective, expected resistance.
Operation Valhalla was what the troops called a himmelfahrtskommando, a trip to Heaven. A Knight’s Cross job. A suicide mission.
“Fallschirmjäger,” Heilman said. “Fallschirmjäger! For years, we fought for our nation and our families. The war is over now but a new war has begun. Now we must fight again. Again for our families, who need us now more than ever. Again for our nation, but not the old Germany. No—a new Germany!”
The men pounded their chairs in approval. The colonel whistled. Several paratroopers from his headquarters staff marched onto the stage. They seized Wolfensohn’s arms.
“What are you doing?” the SS officer cried.
“Obergruppenführer, we are taking you into protective custody for crimes against the German people and all humanity,” Heilman shouted over the paratroopers’ cheering. “For your role in creating these monsters that are destroying our country.”
“Traitor!” Wolfensohn screamed. “When the Führer hears—”
“The Führer is dead. Lock this bastard up!”
Schulte muttered, “It’s about damn time.”
CHAPTER TEN
INSURANCE
Sergeant Robert Wilkins knocked on Colonel Adams’ office door.
“Enter,” the colonel barked.
Wilkins marched into the room, came to attention, and saluted. “Reporting as directed, sir.”
“At ease, Sergeant.” Adams stood at the side of the office, where he kept a decanter of brandy. “Care to join me in a snort?”
“I wouldn’t say no to it, sir.”
Music softly played on a record player. “The White Cliffs of Dover” by Vera Lynn. The colonel poured two fingers and handed him the glass. “Have a seat.”
The sergeant dropped into a chair. “God save the King.”
The men drank.
“Are the Jerries ready for this?” Adams said.
“As ready as they can be, sir.”
“They just arrested that loathsome SS man. Wolfensohn.”
“They hold him responsible for the biological weapon, sir. If I may ask, do you intend to intervene on his behalf? Wolfensohn has been very useful to you.”
“I don’t intend to do anything at the moment,” the colonel said coldly. “The Jerries needed a sacrificial goat to clean their conscience before the operation. We need the Jerries.”
“Right, sir. That’s good thinking.”
“After the operation, I shall take another hard look.” Adams swirled his brandy. “So they’re as ready as they can be on short notice. What about our lads?”
Wilkins shrugged. “Same answer, I reckon.”
“These are perilous times, Sergeant. The whole world has gone arse over kettle. This party may be our only chance to save Europe from utter ruin. It will succeed. It must succeed.”
The sergeant took another sip, relishing the burn. “Yes, sir.”
“That being said, what odds do you give success?”
He inspected his glass. “I’d give it fairly low odds, sir.”
“Right.” The colonel sighed.
“The Germans will have the hardest go of it. They must make the drop, get over the Havel, secure the facility, and then cross the city to the airport.”
“Any changes to the plan you’d recommend to improve the odds?”
“No, sir. Given the parameters, it’s as sound as it can be.”
“So we have the best plan we can produce, but low chances of success.”
Wilkins said nothing, hoping the colonel would take this as his cue to come to the point of this meeting.
Colonel Adams stood and waved at Wilkins’ glass. “Come on, finish up, and I’ll pour you another.”