Black Sun Rising
A/N: Again two years from conception, two years from publishing, three years from posting the second chap, and now after two years here it is. When I be more efficient in my writing? Research and writer's block are my two biggest headaches, especially when I have to write this alone. Now Wolfenstein 2: The Colossus is up and I'm just finished with this, not to mention the latest WoW expansion and the throwback by Sledgehammer to the franchise's beginnings, Call of Duty: WWII. Clive Barker's Undying has a spiritual sequel in the form of the Dishonored series together with the upcoming Call of Cthulhu game. I'd like to thank Petty Officer First Class Boo for reading my then half-finished draft with approval and for a little chat which encouraged me and Spyash2 just for talking with me, really helped a long way there. Read their stories, best in their fandom and genre.
I have binged on war comics, notably some of the works of Garth Ennis and Commando Comics as well as other war comics online. They've been a big help to me as well.
Disclaimer: Wolfenstein franchise now property of MachineGames. Warcraft property of Blizzard Entertainment. No copyright infringement intended.
Chapter 3: Commence
Wading through snow was no different than wading through water, the deeper it got the slower one's progress was made. It did not help snow was merely powdery frozen water. And the blizzard intensified, sending more of that stinging powdered water into their faces. But that wasn't unusual for this party of hardened men, merely annoying. The good thing was that the lumber camp was in sight. Just furthermore and they'll be done with it - half of it anyway.
"Damn, we got all the way here just to rust our armor?" cried a footman, speaking out loudly to be heard over the howling winds.
"That informer better owe us each a pint for leading our asses all the here." Darrick's nose started to crinkle.
"Darrick, be nice. We need to get this rouge back safe and sound for the spymasters back at Stormwind."
"Mah feet are gettin' cold," muttered a dwarven riflemen as he marched in single file. "I'd want a warm one right now."
"Watch ou' for frostbite, Kareth," said another dwarven rifleman. "This cold steals yar feet faster than a ghoul's swipe."
Entering the edge of the camp, the footmen fanned in staggered formation, careful not to bunch up to for an ambush but not too far from each other for support. Single file offers a way for ambushers to overwhelm troops but staggering allows parceling out their strength carefully for such eventuality. Should things get hairy, they would form up and create a diamond shaped wall of shields for defensive protection. Moving further in, they formed up into two loose staggered columns.
"Alright, stop," the sergeant ordered, the party stopping in. "Fan out. And don't try to be too serious. We're here to help him."
Orders and replies echoed in the crisp cold air. The footmen moved out. Asleson didn't stand around but pitched in. He went for the nearest shack and tried to open the door. It budged, he was pleasantly surprised. He called out to footmen. "Hey! Over here. It's open."
The sergeant turned and noticed Asleson and the open door. "Good, saves us a lot of trouble," he muttered to himself in some relief. He ordered Darrick up front to assist the guide. Darrick promptly did that, falling in line beside him.
They entered the shack, the place having an old, almost derelict interior. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling and the posts. This lumber camp had been abandoned since the fresh start of conflict over a year ago. Now that the Lich King is dead, this should be open for business, hopefully in the next spring. Not that it mattered with all the fighting still going around, Horde and Alliance staking their claims while the undead held on. Why the hell would anyone want to fight over a frozen ice cube? Weren't the wild things here bad enough? But he never read on any sort of current affairs here in his piece of frozen green earth.
Both looked around to see this was a cabin used by woodsmen. There was a table with six chairs and three double-beds at the end. At the left wall was a fireplace, still full of ashes of a recent fire. The hairs on the back of neck froze. Someone was here. The windows were messy, dirt accumulating from a long time of neglect. He was surprised that none of those were broken in anyway Surely a few adventurers or fighters may break in for some rest and shelter from the elements. And the beasts that roam this lonely... He was alarmed!
"No way can that door be opened like that," Darrick voiced the guide's source of alarm. He gripped the his sword tighter and brought up his shield. "Someone has to unlock it." Asleson nodded in agreement. Then he noticed footprints leading to a door. A supply closet. He looked at Darrick, who held up his finger to his lips, gesturing him to be silent. The guide nodded. Then Darrick clenched and unclenched his first: Keep talking.
"Place has seen better days, hasn't it?" the guide began. They've had hairy experiences before with surprises.
"Yeah, and too think this was abandoned," the footman answered. "Few travelers breakin' in to weather out the storm." The footman turned his back to the door.
"Think anyone can get this dump running again?" Asleson stepped out of the possible line of sight, ostensibly searching the far corner of the room. He took out his hunting knife.
"'Fraid not, with all the undead and valkyr and ice trolls runnin' 'round the woods." The guide carefully treaded the floor, not tiptoing but moving in deliberately heavy footsteps. It might alert whoever's inside the closet but it's better to give him something than expect the surprise. "Not to mention the greenskins, Asleson. They may have helped us with getting rid of the Burning Legion and the Lich King but I don't trust those brutes."
"Me, neither." He swiftly leaped across and grabbed the door and wrenched it open. Darrick turned around to face the open closet while the guide was ready to pounce from the flank.
"Lothar's blood!" exclaimed the footman. Inside they so a corpse of a man. He was sat up, mouth agape and eyes staring into Darrick's, messy hair framing his pale, hollow, and stubble-adorned face. Both may be hardened men who have fought and bled in the treacherous North but at the right moment things like this never failed to surprise them. Just at this point it was another unfortunate soul whose body they found. This time...
"Could he be the informant?" the guide finally asked to fill in the silence. Outside the footfalls on the snow loudly announced the clumsy coming of the other footmen.
"Let's check this poor fellow," Darrick said.
"Ja." Alseson gulped as he approached and bent over to the corpse. "Keller's not gonna be happy about this one."
The sergeant and two men entered the shack. "What happened, Darrick?" he asked quickly.
"Dead man, sir. Asleson's checking to see if he's our man."
He felt ghoulish as he checked the corpse. He felt its cold clammy skin and judged him dead for a few hours. Look's like his secret went to grave him, he thought ruefully. He parted the shirt to check for wounds and he noticed two holes in the chest.
What!? The holes were small and cleaned of any blood. He was frightened with familiarity of the sight and he hesitated, breathing deeply. The wounds can only be caused by-
"Is something wrong?" The sergeant looked over his shoulder. Then the camp was echoed with rapid stuttering and cracking as alarmed frantic shouts filled the air. A loud bang rent the window, showering them with glass.
Navigating increasingly choppy waters, keeping a lookout for enemy vessels plying the waters, and girding their hearts and minds with steel, things the felt the Rangers as they ventured deep into alien territory. Their training for months from the intelligence schools of England and the harsh training grounds in Scotland, from the desolate hills of the Scottish Marches to the dangerous, frigid waters of its lochs, have paid off. But at the moment, only the boating through the waters mattered a lot. They've judged the approach to be the most dangerous part of the mission. At least with their feet on solid dry land they have a fighting chance.
But thinking of dry land isn't gonna help so they moved on, keeping a close eye on the outward islands of the fjords that were to serve as landmarks on their way. They kept their spacing, both for visual contact and keeping dispersed in the event of ambush. The only comforting thing was the outboard motors that powered their boats. The Evinrude engines with the propellers right angled at the bottom of vertical shafts propelled them with respectable speed, power which gave an amount of assurance to the Rangers. Also, there were wavy, luminescent strips at the rear of the boats which made them visible to the men aboard, allowing them to keep contact in spite of the seas and darkness while being almost unnoticeable to faraway observers on land and sea.
The cold Arctic wind bit into the men in their inflated rafts, chilling them to the bone in spite of being bundled in cold weather gear. The waters, seemingly calm aboard the sub, was choppy for rubber rafts, bobbing like corkwood in a bath tub. Light sprays added to the chilly damp cold they felt. The sub-Arctic darkness was coming as the clouds began to blot out the stars and shortly the moon.
The waters began buffeting the men, the splashing white sprays sending chills which they felt in spite of their cold weather gear. Chatter was kept low as they gripped their weapons and satchels, grimly watching the darker shapes that were pieces of fjord jutting into the sea, trying to go for the outermost island that was Rjuverikan, which guarded the entrance of the fjords.
Beneventi manned the Evinrude, turning according to the flow of the flock of rubber boats heading further in.
"Feel like rumrunning?" Harker asked Jimenez.
"No, any closer and we'll be at Santa's doorstep," the Cuban replied, feeling surrounded by the dark and the cold.
"Should have volunteered for the Greek mission," Krill said with regret when an intelligence officer was searching for volunteers for operations in Greece. Krill was straight-A's in Greek back in a summer school for Greek-Americans. The only thing he hated about it was writing the frustrating Cyrillic alphabet.
"Doesn't matter whether you're in sunny Greece now," said Rossi. "What matters is getting this job done." They continued on in silence, broken only for orders and replies.
The closer they got to the island, the more it loomed, a shape darker than the background. Little wonder why a fort was built upon that lonely rock. Vikings, then the medieval kings of Norway had made it a sentinel guarding the fjords into the middle of the country. The moonlight was dim, only hinting of the island fortress's stature.
The men huddled aboard felt the chill not just from the cold air but also from the sight of the island.
At the head of the boats was Majors Blazckowicz and Howard, droning over silently. Eyes wide to watch for anything standing out from the darkness such as the rocks on the water that made navigation hazardous.
"Feels like Arzew all over again," Howard muttered.
"Yeah, except we're far from hot, sunny Algeria this time," Blazkowicz conceded.
"With a side chance of freezing to death this far from home," said Richards. "But they pay us to do the messy jobs."
"Look's like we're all gonna get real messy in this one," he whispered. "There she is." The dark shapes took a more definite view. Here in front of them was Rjuverikan. Here in the island was a young man they need to rescue, one who promised information that would bring them one minute step closer to Berlin.
"Jackpot," exclaimed BJ.
Barlow's men were also in awe of the island. "Must be a lonely bastard to live on that rock," Deveraux noted.
Lazio took his eyes on the island. He silently thank God that at least he wouldn't have to climb the cliffs for a while.
"Alright, cut engines," Howard whispered. This was communicated with whispers and hand signals and the outboard motors on their rafts purred into silence. They took out rafts and began their final approach, keeping their eyes on the treacherous rocks that marked the approaches to the fort. "Oars out." Nodding, his company sergeant started making the necessary hand signals, coupled by flashing of flashlights. The silent droning of engines soon died down, replaced by the almost imperceptible sounds of oars dipping into the water.
They were in the fjords, relatively sheltered waters that protected them from the winds and waves as they made their approached to Rjuverikan, from the east to a sheltered cove that the briefings promised to be clear of Germans.
"How much longer, sarge?" The question was raised by James Kaczmarek of Detroit, Michigan, a former tanker of the 2nd Armored Division. Already shivering from the cold, he struggled to keep his teeth from chattering whole he rowed. He had experienced the infamous weather of the British Isles, when it seemed that sky would piss on the earth for days on end. Not to mention the even worse Scottish climate, though he noted the Scots complained less about it.
"We just keep rowing and we'd be on the island," replied Barlow. Already his breath was misty as he exhaled warm air into the cold.
"Y-yes, sir," he managed with a nod. He hoped that they'll get to shore sooner. A quick glance up and he saw the clouds covering more and more of the stars and soon the moon will be blocked. "It's gonna get dark soon."
"Don't sweat it. If it all gets dark, Jerry won't be able to see us." Gellner's comment aroused a chorus of subdued chuckles. "He'll freeze his balls off."
"Ya think Hans would be out looking out for us in the cold?" Kolar noted dryly. "He would want to sit his ass in a warm bunker with a hot cup."
"I'd like to sit mine in a hot place right now." Gellner suppressed a sneeze. He wished he was back in Aberdeen, or even in New York, right now.
The glider was approaching final descent. The pilots guided the glider according to the signals of the Rebecca III transceiver set. Their wireless operator, Matt Evans, also known as Evans 36, was monitoring the pulse signals of the Eureka. 36 looked bored, yet he wasn't. His mind focused on the task at hand, knowing that the glider carried only a small battery for the Rebecca, a limited power supply they must use wisely. All he heard was the steady blip of the 'becca when it bleep faster and red signal light's flashing wildly.
"The 'becca's pickin' up a strong signal, sir," Evans reported.
"How is it?" the Major asked.
Evans listened carefully on his headset. "Signal nominal, no deviation. Slightly due east, four degrees."
"Banking due east, four degrees," Barrow repeated as he brought the glider to gradual descent on the direction indicated.
"Barrow, Rogers keep your eyes peeled for the signal light," Howard ordered. "If we can't see it, we'll be seagoing."
"Yes, sir," Kyne Rodgers, co-pilot replied, consulting his chart.
Which meant that so far so good, he thought. "Alright, we have less than thirty minutes to descent, I want you to go over your equipment and briefings."
"Alright, boys," he announced, "prepare for landing. Last chance for equipment check." It was redundancy out of instinct, making sure nothing was up to chance.
"Oh, shite," Gow muttered, "here we go, lads."
Brock rechceked his rifle and kit. He tried to put on a cool face as he did his check in the darkness of the glider. This was his first op and the butterflies in his stomach kept him from seeming confident.
Gow sat calmly as he checked his, keeping his own thoughts to himself. Their mission begins the moment they hit the ground safely so he put his mind into it, all other considerations secondary.
Perlman kept his Boys upright, not seeming to care. Bennett next to him muttered something about a plane and a parachute being better.
Galloway remained distant, aloof. Brock found his stoicism rather reassuring, a seasoned soldier knowing the ropes. Yet he speculateed on what he was thinking right now.
Reidar checked his watch. Time. He began to operate the Eureka's coding unit, transmitting interrogation signals to establish contact with the glider and to guide it in.
The boats were nearing landfall. The Rangers kept alert for the signal light as their oars dipped into the water, bringing them closer to dry land - and an uncertain fate.
"I got a bad feeling about this," quipped Kaczmarek. His raft was port and behind to the leading raft.
"Keep your eyes peeled for the signal," Barlow said. "If we see the light, the coast is green. If not God help us."
Gellner gripped his carbine and tightened the straps of radio backpack as he turned his eyes on the ominous topography surrounding them. God help them indeed if this shit goes belly up.
There, thought the lookout peering through the glasses. The Americans are here! He put down the binoculars and fumbled for the signal light in his satchel. He turned it on and flicked the blinker.
"There!" whispered Lamarck spotting the flashing light on the dark coast and pointing it for the "staff" boat.
"Good job, Lamarck," Howard replied. "Issue challenge." Lamarck took out his own signal light and blinked Morse code in reply.
The lead boat's immediate reply almost made him forget about the countersign. Fortunately, he remembered about it and he started answering.
"Yup, it's them." They rowed faster. The rubber rafts hit the shore and the leading wave set foot onto the gravel while the other behind dismounted on the shallows. The men assembled ashore, taking up positions on whatever rocky cover they can find.
BJ and Howard hunched over behind a rock, Thompson and Garand drawn respectively. Their eyes squinted in the darkness to find their contacts.
"We're are they now?" Howard asked.
BJ heard the soft rustle of grass and turned his head to the sound's direction. He called out, "Abraham."
"Lincoln," was the response as two shadowy figures got up, prompting the Rangers to aim at him in alarm. BJ stood and walked briskly towards the figures
"Howdy," he greeted one of them, who dressed in an ill-fitting German greatcoat while his work trousers poked out in view. The appearance alone nearly sent them up with their feet had he not raised his MP40 in one hand, making it clear he was no threat.
"Welcome to Norway, BJ Blazkowicz," said Aksel Naess. "We are your contacts. I am Aksel and here is my second in command, the Professor."
"Hello Professor."
"Hello to you too," answered warmly the balding man in glasses with closely-shaved beard, cradling a Sten under his arm like a fowling piece.
"I'm sorry me and my compatriots couldn't give you a proper welcome," Aksel added. "We have a Nazi problem here that needs fixing."
"Always happy to be of service." He gestured to Howard. "Here's the commander in charge of the strike force: Major Howard."
"Honor to meet you." He shook hands with the Milord team leader.
"Ah, a pleasure to meet someone fighting the good fight. And here is 1st Lieutenant Shane Richards, Able team leader." He gestured to the leader of Able team. Richards shook hands with Aksel.
"Good to meet you, Aksel," he greeted.
"Your welcome. I didn't expect you Americans early. You must have beat the British here."
BJ was surprised. "The British team not yet here?"
"They were supposed to come in by glider," answered Aksel. "Come. We'll lead you to the clearing and we can plan the assault on the fortress while we wait."
The implications of the British team's non-arrival can wait, BJ thought. He was more than welcome for the help the Milorg team was giving him. "We're very much obliged."
"Likewise," replied Aksel.
"Did you steal that uniform during washday?" Lamarck mused.
"I wish. This smells of stale beer, tobacco, and sausage."
"Howard," BJ said to the strike leader, "let's get off this beach and this show on the road."
"I thought you wouldn't ask, Major." Howard ordered Shane to get Able, led by Richards, and Burkhart's Baker, going. We a wave and little shouting as possible, the Rangers promptly went to work, hauling their boats off the water and into the beach. They proceeded to take out camouflage netting and began covering their rides with it and driftwood. They covered their tracks as best they could. The Rangers moved about in a rapid yet measured and precise manner to the clearing held by the Norwegians.
"Eureka's interrogating. Sending response..." Evans reported as he transmitted back to the beacon. "Signal reads all clear, sir," he confirmed. "No compromise."
"Very well," said the Major. "Brace for landing," he called out.
Barrow and Rogers guided the aircraft in following the beacon's location while Evans continued monitoring Rebecca. Flying the glider in the darkness, trusting only their training, their planning, and a small radio beacon, was an exercise in concentration, quick thinking, was like sailing a boat with windows painted black relying only on charts and a stopwatch, taking into account of the shoals underneath the water. Maniacs would try. But the men behind the yoke wheels were trained for this sort of thing. They were maniacs the entire team stake their lives on. The men banked and pushed their yoke controls forward, carefully adjusting the flaps and elevator.
Descending, the instrument panel light bathed the indicators in red light. Air pressure took a slow dip, the altimeter indicated gradually faster drop in altitude, airspeed indicator climbed up slightly, artificial horizon presented their leveled turning and pitching, rate of climb and descent dropped slowly, turn and bank indicator read out their heading. The Airspeed was making its final approach.
The Horsa's cockpit was a framed Plexiglass dome that afforded its flight crew good visibility, necessary to make landings in poor conditions. Barrows and Barker's eyes wide scanned grimly for the signal light to guide. Even with the beacon there's still a wide margin for error trying to land in a rugged piece of land surrounded by water. A number of Horsas with their occupants were lost during Operation Husky. Proper training and equipment was provided since then.
The island on the surface was beginning to take shape, a darker blob set in the dark sea. They saw it. Flashing once, then twice. "There! I see it!" cried Barker pointing to the glimmer of light on the island's dark shape. "Heading for LZ." They homed on the blinking light, now certain they can land. It's only a matter of skill and nerve for the two men at the helm.
Closer and closer they came, and the light was getting brighter. They can make out vague shapes below as saw the strip and the woods behind it. They were also easing down fast.
"Deploy airbrakes," ordered Speraver.
"Deploying airbrakes," repeated Barrow as he pulled down the airbrake lever.
Brock noticed the plane seize up and slow down a bit as the wing-mounted airbrakes mounted air resistance for the glider's landing. Training the with things did not ease up his fears of flying in an engineless plane.
The glider took a slight dip on the noise as it flew over the sea, then the rocks and towards the grass.
THUD! The men bounced slightly as they landed on the pasture.
"Deploy chute!" Rogers quickly pulled the lever and the landing chute billowed out immediately, cutting the glider's run on the grass. It shuddered, jostling the occupants a bit. The Horsa slid to a stop, almost throwing them to the head of the cabin.
"Jesus!" exclaimed Gow, holding his Bren.
Grunts and groans erupted as the SAS team recovered from their landing.
"Anybody alright?" called the major. "Sound off."
"We're all fine," said Staff Sergeant. "Nobody injured."
"All right. Disembark, guns at ready."
The Americans and Norwegians descended the glider in order to give a helping hand but the huge door on the left fuselage close to the cockpit flung open forming a ramp and the SAS squad deployed rapidly out of the unpowered aircraft, taking up defensive positions with equally impressive speed and precision just as the Rangers did earlier ashore.
Three men were ahead of the rest: Galloway, Howard, and Ingram. "We're here, Leftenant," he said to Galloway. "Let's see who wins first place."
"Leicester," called a voice in the grass.
"Square," Howard replied promptly.
"Hulloo," said the Ranger commander, getting up with Blazkowicz and signalling for the rest to do the same. Rangers and SAS men came over to greet each other quietly and in convivial, professional spirit.
"You got here before us?" asked Speraver with incredulity yet relief. "Damn, I thought we'd get here first."
"I bet you owe us a round," Howard said with a grin.
"Don't be too sure," the SAS commander said slyly. "Might owe us for pulling your arse out of the fire."
"With any luck, we'll owe each other rounds at the pub." They all got down to brass tacks. "Let's take a knee, gentlemen."
The deliberations began. "Sitrep?" asked the SAS commander to the Norwegians.
"So far, the Germans are not alarmed though may change," explained Aksel.
"How are you, Yanks?" he asked his American colleagues.
"Fine so far, nothing untowards on our way here except for a German U-boat. Bastard did not spot us." He emphasized the word to placate the Brits.
"We'll we had a close encounter with a night fighter but the bastad buggered off. Let's check our watches, gentlemen."
"Alright, let's go over this." The Ranger commander recited, "Our mission is to extract the defector Kovlov and any targets of opportunity are to be destroyed. Documents are to be seized whenever they could be found."
"We are slightly ahead of schedule," said the SAS team leader. "We should move quickly before our air power arrives to obliterate the place. With any luck we could row out into the say for the sea for destroyer escorts of Z Force to pick us up."
"But when that fails, we should head for the mainland and attempt to link up with Norwegian resistance," voiced Richards, "who will help us get to neutral Sweden."
"I have people ready for that," spoke Naess. "They know the woods better while we on the south will pin the Germans down with sabotage and directing air strikes."
"We should have an open door ready," Blazkowicz added his part of the plan. "OSA has a man inside the fort."
"What happens if you're man is caught or worse?" asked Galloway.
"We stick with our guns and follow the plan through," the Polish-American field officer concluded. They could here dogs barking faintly in the distance. "I suggest we move fast."
"Now that's settled..." the SAS major looked at his watch. "Commence Operation Anthracite." At that moment the winds ceased howling. It seems that even two hours away as scheduled, the drone of the RAF bomber force can be heard over the distant horizon. The carrier planes won't be far.
Asleson was feeling cold in his spot. All he did was watch the Germans move around watching for people like him whom they're sure never existed and probably having second thoughts about duty on this grassy rock.
He heard grass rustle behind him. He dared not look back. He gripped his revolver held in the shoulder holster underneath his jacket. His ears perked for any more rustles, especially anything that could not be made by the wind.
He heard a click.
He unwisely turned around to see a German officer looming above him pointing a pistol.
CLICK!
A/N: Cliffhanger, much?
This chapter was more than twice as big but after some reorganization, it's much shorter now. I've managed to depict the Howling Fjords part as best as I could though I felt it short of what I wanted. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated, especially if it's not the SJW kind, which has flourished began in the shadows. Ask me, I'll tell you about it.
-From your author, Anime Borat.