Preston Child - The Babylonian Mask

“Aye, it sure is,” Nina nodded, satisfied with that news at least.

The next day Nina felt decidedly better, although her eyes were not owl strength yet. Her skin was practically void of any burn or pain and she was breathing easier. She’d had a fever only once the day before, but it quickly subsided after she was given a light, green liquid that Dr. Cait jested was something they used on The Hulk before he became famous. Nina thoroughly enjoyed the humor and professionalism of the team, balancing positivity and medical science perfectly to benefit her well-being as much as possible.

“So, is it true what they say about steroids?” Sam smiled from the doorway.

“Aye, it’s true. All of it. You should see how my balls have shriveled to raisins!” she jested with a matching look of amazement that had Sam laughing heartily.

Reluctant to touch her and ignite her pain, he just kissed her softly on her crown, smelling the fresh shampoo in her hair. “It is so good to see you, love,” he whispered. “And those cheeks are flushing too. Now we just have to wait for a wet nose and you’ll be ready to go.”

Nina laughed with difficulty, but her smile persisted. Sam held her hand and looked around the room. There was a large bouquet of her favorite flowers with a big emerald-green ribbon around it. Sam found it quite striking.

“They tell me that is just part of the décor, changing the flowers every week and so on,” Nina remarked, “but I know they are from Purdue.”

Sam did not want to rock the boat between Nina and Purdue, especially while she still needed the treatment only Purdue could get her. On the other hand, he knew that Purdue had had no control over what he’d tried to do to Nina in those pitch-black tunnels under Chernobyl. “Well, I tried to bring you some hooch, but your staff confiscated it,” he shrugged. “Bloody drunkards, the lot of them. Watch out for the sexy nurse. She shakes when she drinks.”

Nina chuckled with Sam, but she figured he had heard about her cancer and that he was desperately trying to cheer her up with an overdose of pointless silliness. Since she did not wish to participate in this painful circumstance, she changed the subject.

“What is going on in Germany?” she asked.

“Funny that you should ask that, Nina,” he cleared his throat and pulled his recorder from his pocket.

“Ooh, audio porn?” she joked.

Sam felt guilty about his motives, but he put on his pity face and explained, “We actually need some help with a bit of background on a suicidal Nazi squadron that apparently destroyed several bridges…”

“Aye, KG 200 ,” she chipped in before he could carry on. “They reputedly wiped out seventeen bridges to prevent the Soviet forces from crossing. But that is mostly speculation, according to my sources. I only know about KG 200 because I wrote a dissertation on the influence of psychological patriotism on suicide missions in my second year post-grad.”

“What is KG 200 exactly?” Sam asked.

“ Kampfgeschwader 200 ,” she said a bit weakly, gesturing for some fruit juice behind Sam on the table. He passed her the glass and she took minute sips through a straw. “They were designated to man a bomb…” she tried to recollect the name with her eyes to the ceiling, “…called, um, I think… Reichenberg, as far as I remember. But they were known as the Leonidas Squadron later on. Why? They’re all dead and gone.”

“Aye, that’s true, but you know how we seem to run into things that are supposed to be dead and gone all the time,” he reminded Nina. She could not argue that point. If anything, she knew as well as Sam and Purdue that the old world and its wizards were alive and well in the modern establishment.

“Please Sam, don’t tell me we’re up against a World War II suicide squad still flying their Focke-Wulfs above Berlin,” she exclaimed, inhaling and closed her eyes in mock apprehension.

“Um, no,” he started to ease her into the insane facts of latter days, “but remember that pilot who escaped with from the hospital?”

“Yes,” she replied with a curious tone.

“What did he look like, you know, while the two of you were making your journey?” asked Sam so that he could ascertain just how far back to go before he started filling her in on everything that was going on.

“I couldn’t see him. At first, when the cops called him Dr. Hilt, I thought it was that monster, you know, the one who was chasing my roomie. But I realized it was just the poor lad who got burned, probably having disguised himself as the dead doctor,” she explained to Sam.

He drew a deep breath and wished he could suck on a smoke before telling Nina that she was, in fact, travelling with a shape-shifting killer who only spared her because she was blind as a bat and could not point him out.

“Did he say anything about a mask?” Sam wanted to treaded softly around the subject, hoping that she at least knew about the Babylonian Mask. But he was quite certain that Löwenhagen would not have shared such a secret randomly.

“A what? A mask? Like his mask that they put on him to avoid his tissue from becoming infected?” she asked.

“No, love,” Sam replied, preparing to spill the beans on what they were involved in. “An ancient relic. The Babylonian Mask. Did he mention that at all?”

“No, he never mentioned anything about any other mask than the one they put on his face after applying the anti-biotic ointment,” Nina clarified, but her frown deepened. “For Christ’s sake! Are you going to tell me what this is about or not? Stop asking questions and finish playing the thing in your hand so I can hear what how deep we’re in shit again.”

“I love you, Nina,” Sam chuckled. She had to be healing. That kind of wit belonged to the healthy, sexy, angry historian he so adored. “Alright, first off, let me just tell you the names of the men these voices belong to and what their parts in this are.”

“Okay, go,” she said, looking focused.“Oh, God, this is going to be a brain wrecker, so just ask if there is something you don’t understand…”

“Sam!” she growled.

“Alright. Brace yourself. Welcome to Babel.”

Under the meager lights with dead moths in the bellies of their thick glass shades Lieutenant Dieter Werner accompanied Captain Schmidt to where he would be debriefed on the happenings of the next two days. The day of the signing of the treaty, the 31st October, was upon them and Schmidt’s plan was almost due to come to fruition.

He had informed his squad of the rendezvous point to ready for the onslaught he was the architect of — an underground bunker once used by the SS in the area to accommodate their families during Allied bombings. He was about to show his chosen commander the hot point from where he would facilitate the attack.

Werner had not had any word from his beloved Marlene since that hysterical call from her that had revealed the factions and their participants. His cell phone had been confiscated to prevent him from alerting anyone, and he had been under the strict supervision of Schmidt around the clock.

“Not too far now,” Schmidt told him eagerly, as they took the umpteenth turn down a small corridor that looked the same as all the others. Still, Werner tried to find identifying features where he could. Finally they came to a safe door with a digital keypad security system. Schmidt’s fingers were too quick for Werner to memorize the code. Within moments he thick steel door had unlocked with a deafening clang and opened.

“Come in, Lieutenant,” Schmidt invited.

As the door closed behind them, Schmidt switched on the bright, white overhead lights from a lever against the wall. The lights flickered rapidly a few times before staying on and revealing the interior of the bunker. Werner was astonished.