Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

Andros was alone in the middle of the clearing, the dumbstruck mare turning in circles in the wide-open area even as the explosions began to close in. A great flash of light flickered across the sky, and a tremendous explosion shook the ground. The mare bucked as Andros looked up to see a great shadow falling upon him. He covered his face and heard a thud. When he lowered his arms, another fir tree that had stood before him was gone, just like the tree that had almost crushed him and Doughty.

Then something sharp clipped him in the leg, and Andros fell forward. He would have slipped off his saddle had he not clung to the mare’s mane. Pain shot up Andros’s spine. Where he had been hit, he couldn’t tell. All around him, the sounds and explosions were growing louder.

This was the end. The Baron had won. All was lost. He remembered the words of the archbishop at his father’s memorial service: “Into your hands I commit my spirit…”

And then there was silence. Choking on dust, the taste of oil in his mouth, Andros wiped the grime from his teary eyes. The Stukas were gone, and he was alone in the clearing, the smoke rising around him in black columns and the stench of scorched metal, oil, and flesh in the air.

Straight ahead, the gorge was clouded in ugly vapors that seemed to bubble up from the depths and roll across the clearing like dark death clouds. When the black fog lifted, the gaping chasm became clear in the light. Andros blinked, his eyes blurred again by the smoke, his mind blurred by the impossible hurdle before him.

He had little choice. The mane of the mare seemed to prickle with electricity, and the hair on the back of his neck lifted at the sound of the hum. The Stukas were closing in again.

He grabbed the reins and tried to get the horse to move, but she wouldn’t. He had lost all feeling in his legs, so he struck the mare’s rump as hard as he could with his fist. Again nothing.

With one last effort, he pulled his father’s dagger from its sheath and jabbed the horse’s rump. She shot off toward the black gorge, which glowed mysteriously beneath the dark shadows of the dust clouds on the surface. Andros pressed his head down against the mare’s mane as she picked up speed.

The horse and rider hurled themselves across the open gorge. Just when he expected them to plunge to the bottom, they seemed to float over the gorge. Andros heard the sharp clap of hooves beating against rocky soil. He glanced back to see the half-moon sliver of the gorge fall behind them like a reaper that had barely missed its prey.

Death behind him, darkness before him, the last thing Andros remembered was clinging to the horse as if she were life itself, hurtling into space.

S am Deker’s body convulsed in the metal chair in the DARPA labs beneath the VA Hospital in Los Angeles. General Packard and Wanda Randolph looked on as a helpless Dr. Prestwick stopped the light-wave bombardment to Deker’s brain and the photosynthetic algae drip to his artery.

“I don’t understand,” Dr. Prestwick said. “I’m not doing anything now.”

Packard said, “The 34th Degree program, Doctor. Shut it down.”

“It is down!” Dr. Prestwick said. “Deker is doing this all by himself.”

Deker’s body arched in pain and then slumped in the chair, his head rolling back, lifeless.

“Dear God,” Randolph whispered. “You killed him.”

Dr. Prestwick said, “No, his vitals are fine. Look at the monitors. This is something else.”

“You mean a coma?” Randolph said, and started slapping Deker. “Wake up, Deker! Wake up! You gotta come back. Come back!”

Nothing seemed to work for the next two hours, and then they gave up trying.

“Now what, Doc?” Packard asked.

Dr. Prestwick said, “The monitors will automatically tell us when there is a change in Deker’s condition. We post a couple of nurses and wait for him to eventually wake up.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Randolph asked. “You’re not cutting up that poor boy’s brain.”

Dr. Prestwick looked at Packard, who looked at Deker. “If he’s so lost inside that he goes six months, we’ll reconvene to discuss next steps. But knowing Deker, he’ll find a way. He always does.”

O n the island of Corfu, Commandant Georgio Buzzini was in his office on the second floor of the Palace of St. Michael and St. George when his aide Sergeant Racini returned from the airstrip to report that General Ludwig von Berg had arrived and was safe at the Achillion.

“Too bad,” said Buzzini, still smarting from his last run-in with von Berg. “Did he ask why I wasn’t there to greet him personally?”

“No, sir,” Racini replied. “He didn’t seem to care.”

“He didn’t?” Buzzini frowned.

“He simply wanted to know if his friend the German professor had arrived. I told him he had, two days ago. I also gave him all his cables from Berlin on the spot.” The sergeant from Palermo quickly added, “To save him another trip to the office here.”

“You mean save us another visit from that bastard.” Buzzini looked out the window over Corfu Town’s spiniada. “Was his so-called nurse with him?”

“Yes, but she didn’t look well at all. I think she’s suffered some trauma. She said she was going to drown herself, and the Baron said she could be his guest.”

“And why shouldn’t she, Sergeant?” Buzzini turned from the window. “Her parents are dead, hanged by the SS in Athens!”

“Mother of God!” cried Racini.

“Yes,” said Buzzini grimly. “If he could, the Baron would murder the Virgin Mary herself before she could bear the Christ Child.” He held up the communique his radio operator had picked up while Racini was gone. “This is from General Vecchiarelli’s headquarters in Athens,” he said, waving the flimsy piece of paper wildly. “The Baron’s nurse, it turns out, is none other than Aphrodite Vasilis of the tobacco family. It was her parents the Baron murdered.”

“No!” said Racini.

“Yes, Sergeant,” said Buzzini, relishing this rare display of superior knowledge. “Not only that, but it seems none other than the son of General Andros paid the good Baron a visit in Athens.”

“The son of General Andros?” repeated Racini, his face flushed from these revelations.

Buzzini decided to drop his final bombshell. “Furthermore, radio traffic is heavy with news from the Peloponnese,” he went on. “Even as we speak, a German air strike is under way against Greek partisans in the Parnon Mountains of the Peloponnese.”

Racini looked flabbergasted, much to Buzzini’s satisfaction. “But what does this mean, Commandant?”

Buzzini, enjoying himself, said, “Consider what we know so far, Sergeant.” He held up a finger to make his first point. “The German First Panzer Division is on its way from France along with further reinforcements to bring a total of four German divisions alongside our own Italian Eleventh Army in Greece.”

The sergeant from Palermo nodded.

Buzzini held up a second finger. “The Germans have relieved us of control of the minefields we’ve laid all along the west coast of Greece. Indeed, German R-boats now patrol the waters surrounding these islands and the coast.”

Racini received the second volley of information with a simple “This is true.”

Buzzini held up three fingers. “Then there is this air strike against increased partisan activity in the mountains.”

Racini shrugged. “Again I must ask you, Commandant, what does this mean?”

Buzzini smiled triumphantly as he held up four fingers. “And now the Baron himself returns to the island in a fury and cloisters himself behind the gates of the Achillion. The only conclusion we can draw is that the Allies are about to invade Greece.”