Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Ten

Loading Supplies on the Zeppelin

Jambol, Bulgaria

It was a huge building, one of the biggest Kostyshakov had ever seen. It was certainly the biggest he’d ever seen standing alone, with no other substantial buildings around it. Brinkmann waved with his cane for a German private to open the door, then ushered the Russian officer in.

“Well, he did say we’d be travelling in the highest style I could imagine, but this is way beyond my imaginings,” said Daniil, craning his neck to take in the immense structure and the massive dirigible within.


Wilhelm, who’d just climbed out of the crew compartment after overseeing one of the maintenance electricians repairing the L59’s wireless set, heard the harsh consonants of the Russian words echo through the cavernous space of the hangar. He didn’t understand the words, but the wonder in the man’s voice was clear as he stood with his neck craned back, staring up at the majesty of the Afrika-Schiff. Several other men in Russian uniform joined him and then—ah! Wilhelm felt his mounting anxiety lessen as a German major stepped through the doors behind them, followed by a Feldwebel. The Russians had dropped out of the war, of course, but until recently they had been enemies . . . and strangers were not permitted in the L59 hangar.

When none of the ground maintenance crew seemed inclined to approach the group, Wilhelm straightened his spine and stepped forward.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Wilhelm said as he clicked his heels together in perfect attention. “I am Signalman Mueller. May I help you?” He was careful to keep his bearing polite and professional—indeed, his pride demanded it!—but he did allow a clipped suspicion into his tone.

“Mueller, I am Feldwebel Weber,” the tall, slender man said. He stood with his shoulders very slightly hunched and had a moustache so grand that Wilhelm couldn’t help but stare. “I am escorting Imperial Guards Lieutenant Colonel Kostyshakov and his staff, along with Major Brinkmann, to a meeting with Kapitaenleutnant Bockholt. On the orders of Major General Hoffman,” he added after a slight, but significant, pause.

“I will be happy to show you the way, Feldwebel,” Wilhelm said smoothly, inclining his head. He turned and gestured to the long, low row of buildings that lined the outer wall of the hangar, inviting them to walk with him.

“Our gratitude, Mueller,” the Russian lieutenant colonel, Kostyshakov, said as they started moving. His uniform was different from the standard Russian army officer’s uniform, Wilhelm noticed. Perhaps because of the guards designation? Regardless, Wilhelm schooled his face to impassivity, but he was impressed. The man’s German was flawless.

“I see by your insignia that you’re part of the L59’s crew. Please elaborate on your duties for us.”

“As a communications operator, sir, besides sending and receiving, I also encrypt and decrypt coded messages, as well as maintain the equipment.” Wilhelm said, hoping that his formal reply would shut down any further questions. Perhaps the Russians were no longer enemy combatants, but they certainly could still be spies.

“A very important position.”

“Yes, sir. Here we are,” Wilhelm announced as they approached the captain’s office door. He knocked twice, then waited for the command to enter before turning the knob and stepping in.

“Signalman Mueller reports that a Major Brinkmann, a Feldwebel Weber and a group of Russian officers are here to see you, sir,” Wilhelm said, after coming to attention and rendering a razor-sharp salute. Captain Bockholt looked up from his desk with raised eyebrows—he didn’t normally require such strict formality—but he returned Wilhelm’s salute and got to his feet.

“Very well, Mueller,” the captain said. “Thank you for bringing them to me. That will be all.”

“Yes, sir,” Wilhelm said, dropping the salute. He turned on his heel and walked out, as Weber and the Russians filed in. He let them all pass, and then closed the captain’s office door behind him. Then he waited.

He wasn’t eavesdropping. He was just . . . there if the captain needed him. Just in case.


“Captain Bockholt, I am Major Brinkmann, and I bring you Major General Hoffmann’s compliments,” Brinkmann said as the young German airman left the room. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded packet of papers which he held out to Ludwig.

“Thank you,” Ludwig said, taking the papers with a nod. “May I offer you some refreshment?” He waved a hand at the sideboard, which held a small but respectable collection of the local fruit brandy known as Rakia.

“We can help ourselves, Captain,” the Russian lieutenant colonel said in unaccented German. “This will be easiest if you take the time to read the missive that the major’s just given you first.”

“I see,” Ludwig said, keeping the curiosity out of his voice. “In that case, please be my guests. The blue bottle is particularly good. Glasses are in the cabinet. I shall be with you in one moment.”

The Russian officer nodded and took one of the two chairs that faced Ludwig’s desk while Weber went to the sideboard and began to pour. Ludwig returned to his seat and opened the packet, his pulse accelerating as his eyes slid over the orders contained within. It didn’t take long, as General Hoffmann was a succinct man. Ludwig read over the entire message twice before he looked up at his guest, now smiling at him over a glass of Rakia.

“Lieutenant Colonel Kostyshakov, I presume,” he said.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Bockholt. Your reputation precedes you.”

“I wish I could say the same, sir.”

Kostyshakov smiled, and Ludwig noted that it didn’t, quite, reach his eyes.

“General Hoffmann will have told you the purpose of my visit here, and the object of my—now our—mission.”

“Yes, sir,” Ludwig said. “It is an audacious concept . . .” he paused, and studied the face of the Russian officer.

“And?” Kostyshakov urged him to go on.

“. . . And one of which, if it is not too bold of me to say, I heartily approve. Bolshevism is a cancer.” Ludwig kept his voice quiet, but even so, he felt his emotions stir at the prospect.

“I am glad you agree, Captain. As to the audacity of the plan . . . well. The Afrika-Schiff rather specializes in audacity, do you not?”

Ludwig felt himself smile.

“It seems we do.”

“Well, then.” Kostyshakov returned his smile and lifted his glass of Rakia. At some point whilst he’d been reading, someone had set another full glass down on Ludwig’s desk. He lifted this in reply and the two men drank, as if in a silent toast to the success of their audacious and improbable mission.

“Now,” Ludwig said. “If you’ll forgive me, General Hoffmann’s orders were a little sparse on the details. Perhaps I can give you a tour of my ship, and you can tell me exactly what men and equipment we will be carrying for this endeavor.”

“Yes, of course. But first, Captain, you must forgive me. Do you think that your men all share your disdain for Bolshevism? I ask only because, as I’m sure you can see, our mission is such that a threat from within our ranks could undo us entirely.”

Ludwig fought the urge to bristle and pursed his lips while he thought about it. He turned the glass of Rakia in his hand, watching the light from his office window play through the pale gold liquor.

“I cannot say for certain,” he said slowly. “But I would be very surprised if they did not. My men are elite, sir. They are the crème de la crème of the Imperial Navy. In my experience, men of that much talent, ability and drive do not gravitate towards the philosophies of Bolshevism.”

“I see,” Kostyshakov said.

“But,” Ludwig went on. “We are no strangers to sensitive mission orders. Certainly they will expect to be told nothing until we are airborne . . . and even then, only what they need to know in order to perform their duties.”

“That would probably be best,” Kostyshakov said. “Well enough.” He tossed back the rest of the Rakia and put the glass down on Ludwig’s desk. “Is now convenient?”

“I am at your service, sir,” Ludwig said. He stood, took his own last drink, and gestured for the Russians to precede him out into the yawning hangar bay.


Wilhelm snapped to attention as the captain’s office door opened. One by one, the visitors filed out, with Captain Bockholt bringing up the rear. He met his crewman’s eyes and a tiny smile played about his lips.

“Ah, Mueller. Just the man I was hoping to see. Find the Obermaschinistenmaat, please, and ask him to join us here. I will be giving Lieutenant Colonel Kostyshakov and Major Brinkmann a tour of the ship, and we will need his expertise . . . and yours.”

“Aye, sir,” Wilhelm said with a salute. “Obermaschinistenmaat Engelke is still in the cargo bay, sir, overseeing the new rack installation. Shall I lead you to him?”

“Yes, perfect,” the captain said, and turned with a smile to the two other officers. “Wilhelm is one of our best enlisted airmen.”

Wilhelm felt his face flush with pride and his chest puff slightly at the compliment from his commanding officer. He said nothing, however, merely turned and began walking toward the cargo bay entrance where he’d last seen his immediate supervisor.

“Hundreds, you say.” Daniil thought on that a bit then asked, “How many men can you lift?”

“Depends on the weight per man. Total lift, fuel, equipment, men other than the crew, and water ballast, is a little over twenty-four tons. It’s not all useable, plan on about twenty-one tons. We can trim the water ballast some, yes, but not all of it. And how much we can trim depends a lot on where we’re going; the thing leaks lifting gas, hydrogen, like a sieve, but it leaks more when the gas expands in warm weather. Still, we need a good deal just to keep an even keel.”

“I knew she was big,” he heard the Russian lieutenant colonel say softly in German behind him as they walked. “But it is different seeing her up close. What is her range?”

“For a long distance flight? She traversed almost seven thousand kilometers nonstop during the Africa mission.”

Kostyshakov was impressed. “Our mission will be shorter, but we will likely need multiple lifts.”

“So I surmised. General Hoffmann’s orders said four companies of men?”

“Five, as it turns out, but smaller companies. Plus equipment, ammo and supplies for maybe two weeks . . . and the animals. Can you take animals on board?”

“Horses?”

“And mules.”

“I am certain the captain will find a way,” Major Brinkmann said smoothly.

“We can,” Bockholt said, drawing his words out, as if he were considering them as he spoke. “But securing them during flight will require some thought. As well as on- and off-load procedures.”

The group fell silent then, as they’d reached the loading ramp for the ship’s cargo bay. The ramp was down, and the shadowed cavern of the bay yawned ahead of them. Had they been anywhere other than inside one of the largest aircraft hangars in the world, the bay would have seemed truly gargantuan. But as it was, tucked under the belly of the L59’s magnificent bulk, it appeared only moderately large.

Still, Wilhelm thought. Surely she has plenty of room for a few men and horses!

“Gentlemen,” he said as he started up the ramp. “Please follow me and stay to the foot traffic walkway. Some of the other areas are designed to hold cargo, but are not necessarily safe for walking.”

The captain gave him a slight nod of approval, and Wilhelm allowed himself a small smile when he turned back and began leading them into the relative dimness of the bay.

* * *

“You call this a weld? Herr welder? Your time would clearly be better spent elsewhere. Go to the cafeteria und fressen!”

This furious tirade echoed through the metal struts and after a brief moment, a red-faced Bulgarian stomped past them, clearly upset at the dressing-down he’d just received. Wilhelm drew a deep breath and took a calculated risk.

Obermaschinistenmaat Engelke!” he called out, “The captain and a delegation of officers are here to see you!”

Wilhelm thought he heard another muttered epithet, but his supervisor and the L59’s senior NCO walked toward them with his spine straight and his working uniform looking sharp. No trace of the irritation he must have felt for the bumbling welder remained on his face.

“Captain,” the senior noncom said, coming to attention and rendering a salute once he was within speaking distance of the group.

Obermaschinistenmaat,” Captain Bockholt replied, returning the salute with a tiny smile on his face. The captain then stepped forward, and dropped his voice to a whisper that Wilhelm could barely hear, “These Bulgarians are butter-fingered oafs, aren’t they? Well done, but you must continue to keep a close watch on them.”

“Aye, sir,” the senior mate said, a tiny growl entering his tone. “The Bulgarian ‘expert’ was a ham-handed fool. Some are better. I will have one of our machinists break his weld and start over. It will not delay our progress.”

“That is good to hear. This is Lieutenant Colonel Kostyshakov, of the Russian Guards, plus Major Brinkmann, of Ober Ost, and Feldwebel Weber. We have been given orders from General Hoffmann.”

The senior machinist’s spine got even straighter, which Wilhelm didn’t think was possible.

The captain went on. “Perhaps you and Feldwebel Weber can go over the cargo requirements and begin to work on some loading solutions. This is to be a major movement, not quite like anything we have done before.”

“Yes, sir,” Engelke said. Feldwebel Weber stepped away from the group, and the two NCOs greeted each other and shook hands. Wilhelm took a step to follow them as they began walking back farther into the cargo bay.

“Wilhelm, wait a moment. Lieutenant Colonel Kostyshakov, Major Brinkmann, I think there is something else we must discuss,” Bockholt said, beckoning to the two officers to come closer. Wilhelm, too, found himself being drawn into a circle of confidence, and he felt intensely uncomfortable at being in such company. What could the captain want me for?

“There is another matter we must consider,” Bockholt said. “The matter of getting past the Russian lines. Armistice or no armistice, I do not think the Bolshevik army is likely to simply let a warship of a recent enemy fly overhead with impunity. And they do have aircraft.”

“What do you suggest?” Kostyshakov asked.

“In his orders, General Hoffmann said that we will have whatever we need. Major Brinkmann, what we need is a fighter escort. Two planes. Four would be better, but two will work, just to see us past the most dangerous part of the crossing, the front.”

The two visiting officers looked at each other for a brief moment, and then Brinkmann nodded.

“I will send a message,” he said. “The general gives this mission his top priority, so it is likely that he will respond quickly.”

“Thank you,” Bockholt said. “Now, Wilhelm here will be able to answer any questions you have about the ship and her capabilities. I must speak with my officers and begin the planning cycle. I will have a basic plan for you in twenty-four hours, pending any changes due to the general’s answer about the escort.”

“Yes, of course,” Kostyshakov said. “Thank you very much, Captain. I am pleased to be working with you.”

“And I, you, sir. We shall make history together, no?”

Again, thought Wilhelm, with more than a little bit of pride. We shall make history together again.


Ludwig looked down the length of the cargo bay and squinted his eyes, imagining it filled with men, equipment and—heaven help them all—even horses.

“It will be tight, sir, but we can make it work,” Heinrich, his recently promoted XO said. After the Africa mission, Ludwig’s previous XO had been given command of his own ship. The navy hadn’t been able to provide a backfill, however, and so his young lieutenant navigator had been forced to step into the role. Overall, Ludwig was pleased with his performance and growth, but this coming mission would certainly put him to the test.

It would put them all to the test.

“Tell me how, Lieutenant,” Ludwig said as he started walking aft. He beckoned to Heinrich to follow and then clasped his hands behind his back. “Tell me what you and the chief-machinist’s mate figured out. I need to see it in my mind’s eye.”

“Very good, sir,” Heinrich said as he stretched his long legs to catch up. “In the first place, the new aluminum cargo racks here in the forward area are significantly lighter than the previous versions. We will use those for standard sized cargo, food barrels, ammunition, et cetera.”

“And how much weight?”

“Four and a half tons for food and water, and about eleven tons for the men and equipment for the first lift.”

“The grenadier company?” Ludwig asked, knowing that they had been Kostyshakov’s choice for the first lift.

“And about twenty-four men from headquarters company. Plus their heavy weapons.”

“And where have you planned to put these men for the duration of the trip? We obviously can’t have them moving around the cargo bay.”

“No, sir. The plan is to cordon off this area where they will stay for the duration of the trip. As long as they don’t leave that portion of the cargo bay, the loading balance should be stable. We’ll have them hang hammocks from support struts to the ends of the racks starting at that stanchion there,” Heinrich said, pointing. “To there. It’s not a large area, but it will be enough that they can stretch their legs from time to time—and a few at a time—and keep their blood moving.”

Ludwig nodded. It wasn’t ideal—but then, what was? It would work, though he didn’t envy those men the cold, miserable transport that awaited them.

“What else?” he asked, continuing down the length of the cargo bay. “How will we secure the heavy weapons?”

“The weight and balance calculations we ran suggest that they’re best located dead center of the cargo bay, sir,” Heinrich said, walking to that point. “The plan is to use horses to haul them in their rigs up onto the deck, and then immobilize the wheels in place and tie the entire apparatus down to our support struts, using our standard cargo eyelets. We’ll use hempen rope, stiffened with tar for the tiedowns.”

“With a lot of redundancy, one would hope,” Ludwig said dryly.

“Of course, sir. I give you my word that the guns will remain immobile for the entirety of the trip.”

“I hope so, otherwise we’re going to deliver fewer men than we promised. Not to mention the godforsaken horses.” He let out a sigh.

“Aye, sir, the horses are the trickiest part. The best plan we can figure is to construct half a dozen stalls in the aft-most portion of the bay.”

“Stalls?” Ludwig felt his eyebrows go up. “You’re going to turn my cargo hold into a stable?”

“Temporarily, yes, sir. We’ll use the same support struts as anchors for lightweight wooden walls suspended from ceiling and deck using the same tarred ropes. Then we’ll have a cradle of hay for each animal, to keep it docile and occupied during transit. We’ll lay duckboards across the floor struts in between the stall walls to create a solid surface for the horses and mules to stand or lie upon.”

Heinrich gestured enthusiastically as he pointed out where each of these things would go, and despite himself, Ludwig was amused. The idea of carrying horses and mules aboard his ship was a ghastly one, but then, this entire enterprise was equal parts ridiculous and incredibly ambitious. Perhaps diving in with enthusiasm and imagination was the only way to actually accomplish it.

“Fine,” Ludwig said. “Though I will make it clear to Kostyshakov and Brinkmann that it will be their men, not mine, who are responsible for cleaning the horseshit out of my cargo hold. Now, let us discuss unloading.”


After his walkthrough with Heinrich, Ludwig was mostly satisfied with the load plan. As he’d suspected, however, the logistics of unloading were still murky at best. Chief among issues was that no one had briefed him on the specific destination—General Hoffmann’s orders had just mentioned “somewhere east of the Volga, and probably east of the Urals”—and so neither Ludwig nor his crew knew exactly what type of situation they’d be flying into.

That was something he needed to rectify posthaste. So he headed to his office to pen a note to ask Brinkmann to come and see him.

“Ah! Captain Bockholt! I was hoping to find you. Do you have a moment?”

Lieutenant Colonel—or whatever the Russian imperial guards equivalent was—Kostyshakov stood outside his office door, a small smile on his face. Ludwig couldn’t decide if he liked the man or not, but he couldn’t deny that he was ambitious and aggressive . . . and he seemed fanatically dedicated to the success of his mission.

“What can I do for you?” Ludwig asked.

“How is your planning coming?” Kostyshakov asked, which surprised Ludwig and put him on his guard. Was the man doubting him and his crew?

“Rather well, actually,” Ludwig said, trying to keep all hint of stiffness out of his tone. “Although I was headed to pen a note to Major Brinkmann. I’m afraid we can go no further with our plans until I have more concrete details about our exact destination.”

“Ah, I don’t have much more information on that, but I will tell you what I know,” Kostyshakov said, his smile changing to a rueful grimace. “You have maps in your office?”

“I do,” Ludwig said, and reached out to turn the handle of the door leading from the hangar. “But there are more and better in the planning room. First right past my office. After you, please.”

Ludwig followed Kostyshakov into the large room that he and his officers used to plan their flights. Maps and charts hung on three of the four walls, with the fourth dedicated to large windows to let in sunlight. In the center of the room, a long table with an angled top held a large, detailed map of eastern Europe from the Mediterranean to the Baltic, and including most of Western Siberia. Kostyshakov made a beeline for this map.

“This is good quality,” he said, admiration in his voice. “You Germans always did pay attention to the details.”

“It is how we are taught, sir,” Ludwig said. “The destination? Major General Hoffmann said east of the Volga?”

“Hmm, yes. So we don’t actually know the exact location. Yekaterinburg, Tyumen, or Tobolsk, those are our best guesses right now. The latter is the last we’ve heard of, but they may have been moved to one of the others. The strategic recon team will find a place to land but it will depend on where the royal family is.”

Ludwig leaned in to peer at the map where Kostyshakov pointed at the three cities in succession.

“Does your Strat Recon team know what to look for?” Ludwig asked. “What makes a good landing zone for a zeppelin?”

“I gave them some guidance. Describe the ideal to me.”

Ludwig pointed at a spot on the map where the topographical contour lines curved away from each other with wide separation.

What he recited sounded much like what Kostyshakov had told Turgenev. “If we are to land, it must be a large area, flat with little to no vegetation. Some kind of water feature—a lake or wide river would be best—so that we can refill our ballast tanks. And most importantly, it must be secure. I am sure I don’t need to remind you that our hydrogen lifting gasses are quite flammable. One enemy tracer round into our envelope and we are done. As a well-roasted beef haunch is done.”

Kostyshakov snorted a soft laugh at Ludwig’s dark humor. “There will be only a small force on the ground to receive the first shipment. However, we will do our best to ensure you have a secure landing area. Once the first lift is complete, of course, it will be simpler, for we will have the grenadier company on the ground. However, what other options do you have, if we cannot find this perfect meadow of yours?”

“We can land to a tower, like a steeple perhaps, though it will make unloading more difficult, at least for the horses. Supplies can be thrown out or lowered via rope slings, as can men. Or men could use a ladder. But the horses and mules will present a problem, as will the heavy weapons.”

“How long will you need on the ground?”

“We will do a rehearsal in a day or so to practice onloading and offloading the cargo, so my men should be able to get it down to about thirty minutes. No longer than it will take to top up the ballast tanks. But I must tell you that approaching to land to the ground takes much more time than landing to a tower, and we will be quite vulnerable the whole time.”

“Well, as I said,” Kostyshakov shrugged, “we will do what we can. Let us hope your crew can keep from being spotted from the air while in transit.”

“I do not like to risk my crew and my ship on the basis of hope, sir,” Ludwig said tartly. Kostyshakov looked up at him with one raised eyebrow.

“Captain, is that not what we are all doing here?”

Ludwig said nothing, merely met the other man’s eyes for a long moment, and then turned back to the map.

“On another topic, I do have a small request for you,” Kostyshakov said, straightening and stepping back from the map table. “I appreciate that there are nuances to this business of mobility by air with which I am unfamiliar. I would like to have you appoint a liaison to my staff, if you wouldn’t mind. Someone who can inform me and my staff of things we do not know.”

“I am desperately short of officers, sir,” Ludwig said with real regret. A liaison was a fantastic idea, and it spoke well of Kostyshakov that he would ask for one. “I am sorry that I have none to spare.”

“I know, Brinkmann told me that you have only the one lieutenant as your XO. I thought perhaps an NCO might do the trick. What about that one young man . . . Wilhelm . . . ?”

“Signalman Mueller?” Ludwig pursed his lips and considered. “He is a good man and indispensable as our wireless operator . . . but as you know, this mission is so covert that we have literally no one with whom we can communicate. Your ground forces will be on the move too much to make a wireless practical . . . yes. That might do nicely, sir. I will speak with my senior noncom and have him release Wilhelm to your staff effective immediately.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Kostyshakov said with a slight inclination of his head. “I promise that we will take good care of the young man.”


“Mueller, what are your thoughts?”

Wilhelm had been looking up at the underside of the L59 as his friends and crewmates lowered barrel after barrel out through the deck of the forward part of the cargo bay. The airship currently hovered ten meters above the ground, secured by her mooring lines as the crew practiced offloading cargo as they would do if they could not find a landing zone big enough to set down on the ground. Lieutenant Colonel Kostyshakov, to whom he’d been temporarily assigned for the duration of this mission, approached him, hands behind his back and that slight smile on his clean-shaven face.

“Sir?”

“How goes the rehearsal? If you’re to be my liaison, you must be ready to explain the nuances that I might not immediately catch.” Kostyshakov came to a stop beside Wilhelm and craned his neck upward to see what Wilhelm had been watching. “Is it going well?”

“This part is, sir. Our crew is very well trained with supply drops of this type. The hard part will be the animals.” Wilhelm instinctively drew his spine up straight, then belatedly realized that the Russian officer was several inches shorter. Would he see that as an insult?

Not that Kostyshakov had time to notice. A deafening scream rent the air, causing both men to spin aft toward the stern of the zeppelin. There, a mule dangled, suspended in a canvas sling that wrapped under its belly and hung from chains that led to the zeppelin’s winch. Wilhelm knew that the machinists, his friend Gustav among them, had been working all morning to move and reconfigure the winch to try to attempt this maneuver.

As Wilhelm and Kostyshakov—along with everyone else observing the unloading rehearsal—watched, the mule let out another scream of protest as the winch started to lower the sling. The animal kicked out with its hind legs, making its situation worse, as the sling began to lurch from side to side in response.

“Oh no,” Wilhelm murmured. “This is bad.”

“Bad? Why?” Kostyshakov asked.

“That oscillation is very hard on the winching gears. If the crew cannot get it under control, it could tear the winch right out of the support strut—or worse, cause it to grind itself up and start a fire. These ships are big, yes, but everything is very delicate.” Wilhelm breathed in sharply as the animal kicked again and showed no sign of ceasing to struggle.

The swaying got worse, until Wilhelm found himself biting his lower lip in fear for his friends overhead. A loud pop echoed across the field, and the mule in the sling jerked, and then plummeted to the ground with another scream of terror.

A sickening thud echoed across the suddenly otherwise silent field. A tall figure that Wilhelm instantly recognized as Captain Bockholt stepped toward the crumpled animal and drew a Luger P08. The captain fired, and the mule finally fell silent, freed from its misery.

“They had to cut the load,” Wilhelm said, hearing the sickness in his own voice. “Otherwise, it would have jeopardized the ship and everyone on her.”

“Hmmm. Sergeant Kaledin is going to be very upset about the loss of his mule. But, yes, I can see that. What do you suggest?”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes, you. You’re my liaison. Your captain wouldn’t have assigned you to me if he didn’t intend you to advise.” Kostyshakov’s tone was kind, but Wilhelm could hear the edge of impatience under the words. He took a deep breath, steeled his nerve, and opened his mouth.

“I suggest that your strategic recon team find a place where we can fully land, at least for the first lift, if not two. If panicking animals don’t cause damage to the ship, they will almost certainly injure themselves and then they’re no use to your forces, sir.” Wilhelm kept his tone respectful, but he told the bald truth.

Kostyshakov turned to look up at Wilhelm, his tiny smile returning. “There,” he said. “See? That wasn’t so hard. As it happens, I agree with you, but we may not have a choice in the matter. And if the animals die, they can always be eaten.”

“And so we will continue to rehearse,” Wilhelm said. “Perhaps we can get the animals used to the procedure. Maybe if they try a blindfold?”

“That should be interesting,” Kostyshakov said.

“Yes, sir,” Wilhelm agreed. Privately, he had a bet with Gustav that at least three of the horses didn’t make it to the actual day of the mission. But he wasn’t about to tell the Russian that. Not after watching the horrible demise of one of the poor animals.

Perhaps later, after the mission was complete. Still, poor “Lydia.”


Back | Next
Framed