"In my dream, I smell a barbecue. I hear children, a dog, and I see someone. I think I see someone. These things, none of it for me. I move by roaring engines, among warriors. We come from the night."
Excerpt from Diary of Captain William J. Blazkowicz
Dated: July 15th 1946
17 Hours prior to commencement of Operation Watchtower
A brief but firm tap on his chest brought BJ out of his fitful slumber. He opened his eyes and his mind began filling the blanks. It was early morning, probably about five or six hundred judging by the bright sun rising from the horizon. Illuminated against it Blazko could see about a dozen of the jumbo bombers transporting a small regiments worth of American and British paratroopers to a small stretch of coastline the Baltic Sea facing Germany proper and their escort fighters.
"Eyes open Blazkowicz!" a raspy Scottish voice yelled over the roar of the six powerful engines keeping Blazko's own plane in the air. A firm grip on his shoulder forced him turn his head to face Airman Fergus Reid, pilot of Vulture One, the name of the plane whose co-pilot seat Blazko was currently napping in.
"You keep the look out!" he ordered. "I need to go for a piss!"
Blazko took a moment to look over the Scottish serviceman. Reid's face told him this was more than an answer to the call of nature. Judging by the sun rising behind him and the grim, determined frown Fergus had on it was all Blazko needed to know that they were almost at Objective Frostbite: Deathshead's personal castle and the source of the death machines that had allowed the nazi army to turn the steady allied advance into occupied Europe into a desperate holding action. For Fergus, this was a last chance to pretend to be human before he had to end that charade and prepare for the coming bloodbath the OSA predicted this was going to be.
Before Blazko could reply he heard the rough whistle of an artillery shell followed by the bang of a flak shell exploding. Both he and Fergus looked outside the canopy to see one of the jumbo bombers bleeding smoke and flame from its fuselage.
"Oh shite!" Fergus swore. "Flak! Flak! Flak on all sides!"
As he verbally reacted Fegus slid into the pilot's seat and gave the control stick a hard yank, banking left to avoid losing his wing as the flaming jumbo fell out of the sky. All Blazko could do was watch the plane and the hundred or so soldiers she was carrying unnaturally buck and twist in the wind towards his own bird.
"No, no, no," Fergus quietly declared. "Not today!"
The stricken transport plane fell through the aerial convoy without taking any of its sisters with it and looked like it was going to harmlessly crash into the ocean, and most of it did. Except for one wing, that is, which broke off and remained airborne long enough to nick Blazkos' bird. The plane rocked fiercely but remained flying. However there was no time to celebrate their survival.
"Blazkowicz!" Fergus snapped as their plane evened out and took a sharp nose dive towards the glistening sea. "Go back into the flight deck! Clamp the fuel line to engine six! Quickly!"
Blazko leapt to his feet without a word. He grabbed his headset, dropped it into place over his crown, and dashed out of the cockpit, getting a good eyeful of the ball of fire where the Number Six Engine was supposed to be to remind him why he needed to move fast. Behind him the vessel's only passenger, a stick thin teenager barely half his height and dressed in some foppish ensemble more suited to an English Manor than a US Army Air Force cargo plane, was following closely.
"Mind the tools in the tools cabinent!" Fergus instructed over the radio as the two left the cockpit. "You'll need some pliers and some baling wire! Hurry up and get it done or we'll lose the whole wing!"
"I'll get it, captain!" the passenger yelled. "You get to the fire!"
Blazko nodded and ran straight down the metal corridor to the small maintenance hatch at the other end billowing smoke. He dropped to his knees and crawled inside and quickly found the source. The fuel line for Engine Six had sprung a major leak in several places and some spark had light the spraying gas, creating the inferno about to end Blazko's mission before it even began.
"Here, captain!" The passenger thrusted the pliers and wire at him.
Blazko grabbed the offered equipment and rounded nipped the problem in the bud.
"Cracking job, lads, but I'm losing altitude," Fergus informed Blazko and his helper as they reemerged onto the flight deck proper. "Need to drop weight or we'll be ditching hard like! Head for the cargo bay and jettison everything we've got out of the cargo door!"
"Christ, it never ends does it?" the young man muttered.
"No it doesn't, son," Blazko informed him. "Now let's get to it!"
The two were inside the cargo hold in seconds, knives out and eyeing the cloth straps holding the ammunition, rations, and other supplies their plane was carrying still with a murderous intent in their eyes.
"Hold fast, I'm cranking up the cargo hump!" Fergus informed them as the ramp creaked open. "Right! Now cut the crates loose, boyos!"
The first palates were cut loose in a heartbeat and sliding their way out the open door into the churning spray created as the belly of the plane scraped along the surface.
"Jesus Mary Joseph!" Fergus screamed into the mic. "We're scraping the surface! Hurry it up down there!"
"Working on it!" Blazko barked back as he cut loose a jeep. It and the palate of oil drums sitting opposite were quickly dragged away. He made for the last one but was stopped when his partner grabbed his knife hand before he could slash the straps.
"No! Wait!" the teenager ordered. He pointed at one of the objects sitting atop the last palate. "Grab that!"
Considering the thing was likely only a few pounds heavy at most and their plane was about to become a submarine, Blazko decided not to argue and grabbed the offending item. While it wasn't particularly heavy the object was large and its lower half hit the deck with a thud that was barely audible over the engines and the churning surf. As it did the teenager slashed the straps and the last palette fell out the back.
"Grand, grand!" an infinitely more relaxed Fergus practically sang. "We're climbing now. Good work boys, now get back to the cockpit sharpish!"
"I'll take that," the teenager declared, reaching for the precious object in BJ's hands, which BJ was quite happy to turn over. As the boy examined it for damage Blazko found himself wondering not for the first time why the OSA Director had decided to saddle him with a teenaged civilian on the most important mission of the war, and why he told him to protect and guard both the kid and the coffin he was bringing along like his life depended on it. Which it did according to the Director. Assistant Director Stone wasn't much better.
"Look BJ," he replied after a brief but harsh grilling on the fields of RAF Kinloss. "If I knew I would tell you, but I don't. What I do know is that OSA and Allied Command want Mister Dornez here," he gestured at the teenage boy at his side, "and that coffin aboard Vulture One before you take off. I don't know why they're sending this kid with you or the box, but they act like if they don't we're all going to die and lose the war. Now make the brass happy and get your cargo secured."
An explosion from just above brought BJ back to the present. A new hole had just been blasted into the hull big enough for even Blazko's muscle bound body could fit through with ease.
"Are you both all right back there?"
"We're fine, Fergus," Blazko replied. "What was that? More flak?"
"Yep," Fergus confirmed, "coming straight from Deathshead's compound. Better get back here right quick lads."
"I'm on my way," Blazko affirmed, rushing up the aluminum staircase and dashing towards the cockpit in time for the Luftwaffe's greeting. As Mustang pilots and turret gunners tangled with Horten Ho 229s powered by stolen Da'at Yichud technology, Walter C. Dornez lovingly stroked the coffin in his hands, giggling a mad laugh.
"Almost there, my friend," the fifteen year old vampire hunter and butler assured it. "Almost there."
While still asleep the monster inside the black wooden box began to stir, awakened by the screaming of men and the chatter of a hundred machine guns firing in unison. Oh yes, he was almost there, and when he arrived all of hell would sing as he worked his bloody trade among his master's enemies.