Sentinel of Liberty
Prologue
French Countryside, April 1942
"Relieve those men of their duties, sergeant! We need them out here now!" A large, middle-aged man barked. In response, the sergeant, a younger, leaner man, relayed the orders to the soldiers around him. They quickly sped around, grabbed their gear and weaponry, and headed onto the battleground.
It was a massacre. The young men who had been drafted were no match for the brutal and effective cruelty of the Germans. Very quickly, they were outnumbered. The forces they were against, a battalion of German soldiers with flamethrowers and tanks to support them, clearly had the upper hand. They dispersed through the camp, setting tents and vehicles ablaze. Many were caught in the inferno, their screams of agony blasting into the afternoon sky. Large blasts of debris were launched into the air as the tanks found their targets. Soon, bodies littered the battleground, the green earth below them stained with red. Almost no survivors were left, except for a small group of higher-ranking troops. The led them away from their camp towards a heavily wooded valley that was situated in the middle of the French countryside.
"What are our orders, sir?" a young corporal inquired, fear stretching through his face. The large man, a general, sighed heavily.
"Nothing, kid, unless you want to end up like the rest of the squadron."
Fog waded around their ankles and calves as they trudged deeper into the valley, being stopped occasionally for certain Germans to take a restroom break. As their walk continued into the early dusk of central France, the valley took on a marsh-like quality, causing them to get stuck in the mud constantly. Finally, they made it out into a clearing where the Germans were situated. Large tents were positioned in a circle, with their supplies and vehicles situated in the middle. Between the mocking laughs of soldiers still there and the threat of a bullet to their skulls, the soldiers could do nothing but remain quiet. They were led to a tent that was centered between all the other ones. Swastikas were draped over its sides and guards were standing near the door.
"Dort nun, Hunde," one of the Nazis sneered, and they slowly eased into the compound. There was a large table in the middle with chairs sat all around it, a large map of France situated on the top. To the side sat a king-sized bed draped in orchid cloth. The usual Nazi regime flag was hung in the interior, but now and then there was another symbol: a red skull with tentacles spreading out from it. The general felt his body stiffen as a cold chill found its way into the tent, followed by light footsteps that made a metallic "klink". A man walked into the room, his olive green outfit covered by a purple, hooded coat. His face was sallow, thin, with a hooked nose and cold dark eyes. He grinned maliciously and ran a gloved hand back through his brown hair, which was recently slicked. Every soldier, even the Nazis, felt his eyes pierce their soul, searching for ways to break them. When he started to speak, he did so in a calm, but rough demeanor, his light Eastern European accent showing through.
"I'm assuming you are General Patton, no?" He asks, and the German grunts force him to speak by ramming the butt of a rifle into his spine. Patton grunts.
"Yeah, that's me. Now, what do you want?"
The man clicks his tongue against his jaw.
"Now now, General. Show some respect, even though I doubt you Americans have any."
There was an air of unsettlement as the man strides past the soldiers and picks up something from the table. He holds it up to reveal the picture of an older fellow with a round face surrounded by dark hair and a bushy moustache. Its edges crumpled as the man gripped it tightly.
"This man is Abraham Erskine, an engineer and biochemist. Until last year, he worked for Herr Fuhrer. Then, he suddenly disappeared. And this man-" he points a gloved finger at Patton- "was the leader of the squadron that helped him flee to England. Now, here's what I want. Where is Erskine?"
Patton stared at him with blank eyes, carefully planning what he'd say.
"I don't know."
The man glared in response, and he quickly lost his calm demeanor.
"Listen, Patton. I am not a Trottel, so you will tell me where he is, or suffer."
Various soldiers looked at Patton, anxious to hear what he'd say.
"I. Don't. Know, you dirty Kraut. My squadron dropped him off in London, and we went back to work."
The man slowly breathed in while giving Patton a look of pure hatred. He exhaled and quietly chuckled.
"So be it. Männer! Nehmen Sie sie nach draußen und sie enden. Mit Ausnahme der General. Setzen Sie ihn in einer Warteschleife."
The soldiers were grabbed by Nazis and dragged outside. He listened as their cries permeated the air and were quickly silenced by the sound of machine guns firing. He smiled and looked down at the table, grabbing a sheath that contained a double-bladed sword. While he equipped it to his uniform, a short man with large glasses walked in and spoke in a thick, nasally Swedish accent.
"Mein Baron, what are we going to do with Patton?"
"Ah, hello Doctor Zola," the man greeted him, and grinned darkly.
"He's going to the Skull once we are back in Germany. I'm sure Schmidt will enjoy a new plaything to experiment on."
"What about our projects?"
"Until we find Erskine and the serum, they will have to be put on hold. We can't have another incident. However, Adhesive X, the Der Tod von Inferno weapon, and the automatons will go as planned as per the Fuhrer's request."
"Yes, herr Zemo," Zola said weakly, and walked away to begin preparing his things. Zemo looked again at the map and the picture of Erskine. He moved the hood out of his face after it began to fall over it and spoke to himself.
"I will find you, Erskine, and your serum. Once I do, I will amass an army more powerful than the world has ever seen. Not only for the fuhrer, but for myself. No one needs to know my true plans yet."
Zemo turned and faced the flag of the skull. He put his arm up in a salute.
"Heil Hydra."