Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

As he climbed into the tube, Deker could hear von Berg’s hideous, rasping laugh. It was all he could do to keep from slipping down the sides of the slick tube back into the compartment of water below him. He glanced down at von Berg’s bloody face before he pulled up the hatch, locking himself in a vacuum of darkness.

There was only silence in the tube, silence from the water, but it was black, and he had a little air left as he felt the whole sub sinking. He would get a proper burial at sea, at least, just like his forefathers.

The water rose slowly to his eyes, forcing him to lift his chin above the surface to breathe. Not a sound from the torpedo room below. Von Berg must be dead by now, but that thought did him little good. It would be only seconds before the salt water would swirl down his own throat and his body would sink like a lead weight.

And now he was choking on the water, coughing it up only to swallow more. He could feel the water filling up his lungs, could feel himself losing air and consciousness. As he sank to the bottom of the torpedo tube and the darkness overcame him, the last image of life that flickered in his mind was that of Aphrodite’s sad face watching him die.

And then he felt a blast of compressed air beneath his feet and he was shooting up through a dark tunnel, as if in a dream. At the end of it was a light, a wonderful light, and for a brief, flickering moment, he saw his mother’s face, and then everything faded to black.

He broke the surface of the Ionian Sea seconds later, gasping for air. The last thing he remembered was the Nausicaa touching bottom and exploding. But as he bobbed with the waves, he could feel his head attached to his body. He was in one piece, he realized. He was alive.

The explosion must have released the charge of compressed air that ejected him out of the tube and into the water. The only other possible explanation was that the Baron himself had pressed the launch button. But there was nothing across the smooth surface of the sea to suggest that Baron von Berg or the Nausicaa had ever been there.

Deker floated helplessly in ghostly silence, trying to get his bearings, then remembered he couldn’t swim.

As the crest of a wave lifted him up, he thought he heard his mother scream, “Christos! Christos!” like she did in the darkness of that terrible night at sea long ago.

He turned and cringed at what looked like the ghost of the resurrected Nausicaa bearing down on him. But the legend on its superstructure said Cherub. And standing on the bridge were Prestwick, Safire, and Erin, and next to them Aphrodite.

At the Achillion on Corfu, Commandant Buzzini was sitting behind what had been Baron von Berg’s desk, surveying the bomb damage to the study while his men searched the rest of the abandoned palace. The shattered portrait of King Ludwig II on the floor beside him attracted his attention, and he leaned over to take a closer look. For an eerie moment the Italian sensed that it was Baron von Berg himself staring out through those shards of glass, smiling at him from the Great Beyond.

“Commandant.”

“What?” Buzzini jumped up in his seat only to see Sergeant Racini standing in front of the desk.

“Sorry, Commandant, sir.”

Buzzini regained his composure and frowned. “What is it, Sergeant?”

“The Germans are sending more divisions to Greece!” Racini handed the signal from Rome to his subdued superior. “Commandant, did you hear me?” Then Racini saw the blown-out safe in the wall and the Husky report lying on the desk in front of Buzzini.

“It seems I have accidentally opened the Baron’s safe,” Buzzini explained.

“You opened SS reports?” Racini crossed himself. “They will cut our throats for this!”

Buzzini pushed the Husky report across the desk to Racini. “Read it, Sergeant.”

Racini picked up the report addressed TO THE LEADER AND CHANCELLOR OF THE STATE AND MARKED MOST SECRET. As he read it, his eyes grew wide. “Mother of God!” he cried when he finished. “It is Italy the Allies invade!”

“The Baron himself confirms this,” said Buzzini.

Racini passed back the report. “My sisters are in Palermo.”

“And they’ll probably shower the Americans with kisses when they come. Sergeant, we must think fast what to do.”

Then Buzzini thought of something else. What would happen to him and his men should the Allies attack Italy? How would the Germans react? Will we Italians be treated like allies, he wondered, or enemies? The Italian commandant knew what to do.

“For our sakes and our families, Sergeant,” said Buzzini, “we must pray the Allies land with the element of surprise.”

Racini nodded, speechless, as Buzzini struck a match and torched the report, dropping the whole mess into a wastebasket.

“I never saw this,” said Buzzini. “Did you?”

“Oh, no, never, Commandant.”

“As for this ancient text the report speaks of…” Buzzini looked around the room and saw the broken glass case in the corner. “Look over there, Sergeant.”

Racini walked over to the case and shrugged. “There is nothing here, Commandant.”

Buzzini rubbed his whiskers. “The Baron must have taken it,” he said decisively, “because it’s not in the safe.”

“Now what, Commandant?”

“Now we take care of the last remaining piece of evidence.” Buzzini rose to his feet. “Tomorrow morning the Achillion is to reopen as a hospital. See that it looks like one. As far as we’re concerned, it was never anything else.”

“Yes, Commandant.”

“And, Sergeant”-Buzzini looked up at his young aide with flashing, angry eyes-“do you swear to God to keep this a secret?”

The sergeant from Palermo crossed himself with trembling fingers and said, “To the grave, sir.”

At Hitler’s holiday house in Obersalzberg, the Fuhrer and his generals had just viewed footage of Wernher von Braun’s A-4 rockets when a grim-faced Himmler walked in on the weapons conference.

“Reichsfuhrer,” Hitler observed. “You don’t look happy.”

“I regret that I must be the bearer of bad tidings to my Fuhrer.” Himmler presented the signal from Berlin that said SS general Ludwig von Berg had been killed during an Allied air strike on Corfu. Himmler concealed his delight behind a mournful facade.

Hitler’s fury was evident as he crumpled the paper in his hand. “And what has become of Dr. Xaptz?”

“Killed as well by the enemy.”

“And the research von Berg was eager to show us today?”

“Lost, I’m afraid.”

Hitler sighed and looked at the A-4 rockets on the screen. “No matter,” he told the generals in the room. “We now possess the decisive weapons of the war. Production will begin immediately. Soon hails of fire will rain upon London.”

Everybody in the room murmured their agreement except Admiral Canaris, who was lost in sobering reflection at the news of von Berg’s death.

“As for this air strike on Corfu,” Hitler went on, “it can only affirm that my intuition was right and von Berg’s intelligence wrong about the Allies’ intentions in Greece. General Jodl?”

The chief of staff of the Armed Forces High Command sat up in his chair. “Yes, my Fuhrer?”

“The 194th Jager and the First Gebirgs Divisions are to join the German First Panzer Division in Greece immediately.”

“Two more divisions?” asked Jodl. “That makes five additional divisions you’ve deployed to Greece in recent weeks.”

“Yes, Jodl, I know that,” said Hitler, glaring. “How often must I repeat myself around here?”

It was the stormy, moonless night of July 9, 1943, when American and British forces landed on Sicily, catching the Germans and Italians by surprise. Within seventy-two hours, more than five hundred thousand troops touched shore. It would be a matter of weeks before Italy surrendered to the Allies and declared war on her former ally Germany.