To Lyger 0: Himmler wasn't actually a scientist, though he did allow a lot of mad scientists to operate under him in the concentration camps.
"How many of the United Heroez do you think can actually trace their lineage back to these World War II heroes?" asked Nath, pausing the videotaped interview and giving Marc a curious look.
Marc shrugged. "According to their own story, it's got to be at least a third of the current heroes who can trace it back there in one way or another. There's those like Buck and Neptune who are the successors of previous heroes. There are Knightowl and Sparrow who have been active since even before World War I. And then there's this family."
Nath frowned. "Have they ever really said anything about their origin?"
"Nope." Marc shook his head. "Not a word."
Dieppe, France, August 19, 1942
Sergeant Buck Roberts sprinted away from his overwatch position above Dieppe, sliding down an embankment and ditching the Army uniform jacket he had donned for the occasion. His undershirt and trousers, which had been clean when he left Dover, had taken on so much dirt and grime over the last six weeks as to be unrecognizable – which was all the better for him, given the circumstances. Several inches of water and mud stagnated at the bottom of the drainage ditch running alongside the road – without hesitating, he tossed the jacket down to sink into the mud, weighed down with as much of his Army kit as he could spare. As hard as it would be for him to pass as local, he had to at least try.
After today's shitshow, he was stuck behind enemy lines, without any means of escape. And Command had been crystal clear: if he were captured, they would not risk a rescue mission. The Kraut scientists were almost certain to dissect him.
Why the hell had they loaned him to the Brits in the first place?
Buck gritted his teeth, scanning what he could see of Dieppe behind him. Dozens of damaged and destroyed landing craft littered the beach, as the bodies of British and Canadian soldiers continued to wash ashore. Off in the distance, the smoking remains of two planes – Bostons, if he had to guess – smoldered on the top of a hill. A handful of civilians were visible on the edge of the city, looking down in shock at the carnage. Kraut trucks rolled down the streets of Dieppe, several of them loaded down with prisoners of war.
He was far too exposed.
An engine backfired, at least a quarter-mile away. Buck's stomach leaped up into his throat, and he dove for cover in the drainage ditch, splashing into the shallow water as a Kraut truck rumbled past. Cautiously, he poked his head out of the water and took in a deep breath, praying that they wouldn't looked down, or that if they did, the dark colors of his clothing, paired with his dark skin, would help him blend into the mud. The truck screeched to a halt, almost directly above him, and he dropped his head back under the water, holding his breath. For a long minute, he remained submerged, the low chugging of the engine warning him that it was still there. Muffled voices carried down through the water to him, and he turned his head to poke his ear out. A Kraut laughed derisively, and another voice barked something that must have been an order. There was a chorus of responses, followed by another order. After a long moment, the engine motored away, continuing down the road. Buck lay where he was for another five minutes at least, even after the engine noise had completely died away, before pushing himself up and crawling to the top of the ditch, only barely poking his head over the edge to scan the road.
He was completely alone, behind enemy lines.
But, then, he was a soldier, and soldiers followed orders. When Ranger Command had assigned him this mission, he had simply obeyed without hesitation. For this ridiculous "practice landing" to be useful, the Brits needed someone on the beach to observe the Kraut response. He had been bundled across the Channel, made to swim almost half the distance, and given orders to make his way to Dieppe and remain unseen until he received the signal. Once the "landing" commenced, he would watch and observe until the retreat began, at which point he could rejoin the Brit Commandos on the landing craft. But that plan had been entirely shot to hell the moment the Brits' landing craft started getting targeted and destroyed by the Krauts' shore batteries. Instead of linking up with the Brits, Buck had been forced to escape further inland, away from the Kraut patrols in and around Dieppe.
Looking up and down the drainage ditch, Buck sighed in relief, though he couldn't let his guard down. Almost three feet deep, the ditch ran roughly parallel to the road, and as long as he hadn't gotten turned around, it would take him further away from the shore – that was the most dangerous place for him to be right now. He ground his teeth in annoyance: if he still had his map, he would know exactly where he was and where to go, but that had been the second thing he ditched once the plan started going to shit. And unfortunately, his memory had not been enhanced. Nothing for it but to follow the drainage ditch and see where it would take him.
Carefully, Buck made his way along the drainage ditch, bending low to keep his upper body out of plain view and avoid notice from anyone who might be on the road. He frowned, his stomach starting to rumble. After over a month in country, all of his supplies, carefully rationed out to last until the operation, had been entirely depleted. He had destroyed his radio the moment the invasion began to go south, the first step in preventing the Germans from getting any intel from him. Radio, maps… anything that might be useful to the Krauts had been crushed and thrown in the fire of a burning bomber before he left his vantage point over the beach. He could travel more quickly without the pack and jacket… but its absence left him feeling even more alone and exposed. He hadn't even been allowed to bring a weapon on this mission – Ranger Command had deemed it "unnecessary." Well, after the cluster that had been this stupid fake invasion, a rifle seemed like it would be pretty useful right about now!
Buck sloshed through water up to his knees, propelling himself forward through sheer force of will. At this point, all he had left was sheer stubbornness and determination to push him forward. But that was the only reason he was even still alive: even during the worst of it, he had refused to give up. His foot sank into the mud and silt at the bottom of the ditch so deep that he nearly lost his boot; only with care could he break the suction. Muttering a curse, he braced his hand against the side of the ditch and pulled off his boot, letting the mud and water run out before jamming it back on.
The drainage ditch ended at a crossroad with a tube that ran under the side road, and Buck paused, poking his head over the edge and scanning his surroundings. He could still see the rooftops of Dieppe, far in the distance behind him, though the road itself appeared clear. Sighing, Buck slid down lower and looked inside the tunnel. Would it be large enough for him? He frowned – even if it weren't blocked with enough farm waste to seal it off entirely, the opening was hardly large enough for his broad shoulders to fit. Glancing back up, Buck searched the roadway in all four directions once more before grabbing the edge of the road, pulling himself up, and sprinting across the side street to dive into the next drainage ditch. Hitting the bottom, he found this one almost dry, with little more than a small trickle of water in the middle of the ditch, and he made good time running down the ditch, bent even lower as the depth fluctuated. An engine backfired in the distance behind him; without hesitating, he dove for cover against the shaded west side of the ditch. Raucous voices laughed and jeered in German above him as the vehicle passed by his position without slowing down.
Twice more as he followed this road roughly south, Buck was forced to drop prone as German vehicles rolled past him. Once, he thought he heard a voice speaking English, though it stopped almost immediately and was replaced by angry German. Buck clenched his jaw. Every instinct told him that he needed to check – if those were prisoners, then he had to help them. But if they were prisoners and he tried to help them, would he be able to do anything? Under the circumstances, he had nothing he could do for them, not while he was on the run without a plan. As much as it pained him, he had to worry about himself. They were on their own.
The sun started going down to his right as he came to the end of another drainage ditch, at yet another intersection. Pausing, he leaned against the side of the ditch and closed his eyes. Where was he even going? When he had escaped Dieppe, he had had no plan, no goal except to avoid the Krauts. Ranger Command hadn't given him an alternate way of getting out of the country if the original plan went south – maybe they hadn't deemed that necessary, either. But now that he was stuck here, he couldn't just keep running until he was caught. He needed somewhere to run to. Under the circumstances, the best option available was the French Underground – maybe they could help him. But how was he supposed to find them? They couldn't put out signs.
Nothing for it but to keep pressing forward.
Finally, Buck pushed himself up, stretched his back, and started to poke his head out of the drainage ditch to survey the intersection. But as he lifted his head, he froze. A vehicle had stopped just on the other side of the intersection; looking closer, he could see a set of footprints on the other side of the truck, though nothing of the rest of the person. The undercarriage seemed to sag slightly toward the passenger's side. Hardly daring to breath, Buck strained his hearing in that direction. Two voices were arguing in French.
"If you had only been a little more careful…"
"How is it my fault?" a male voice retorted. "I did exactly what they told me to do – and still they shot out the tire!"
"You could have obeyed a little more quickly," the female voice answered, her voice rising in pitch. "All you had to do was get to the side of the road!"
"And look where we are now!"
Cautiously, Buck crawled out of the ditch and hurried across the street, moving as close to the bickering couple as he could get without being seen. A man in his mid-forties, wearing torn and dirty work clothes, stood beside the old truck, arguing with a woman the same age who sat in the passenger's seat. At the front of the vehicle, Buck could see one of the truck's wheels entirely flat. Steam poured out from below the hood of the truck with a hiss. "E–excuse me," Buck called in halting French. "Do you–" he cleared his throat "–do you need help?"
The man jumped, spinning around and staring down at Buck in shock. "Who are you?" he demanded suspiciously. "Where did you come from?"
"Just a… traveler," Buck replied quickly, grimacing.
"I don't suppose you know anything about engines," the man asked, frowning, glancing down at Buck's mud-caked combat boots.
"Sure I do." Buck pulled himself out of the drainage ditch and walked over to the truck. The woman stared at him with wide eyes. Letting out a breath, Buck tried to swallow back his anxiety. "My papa had a car shop before the War. He taught me a thing or two." Quickly, he popped the hood open and glanced inside. "Here is your problem," he announced after a moment's examination. "Engine overheated. Got any water?"
The man shrugged, handing him a canteen. Within a few moments, the smoke had cleared. The man's eyes widened in surprise. "Thank you, stranger. But we still have to replace the tire, and I don't have a jack."
Buck swallowed nervously, and his shoulders tensed. "Are you sure you do not have a jack?" The man nodded. Buck glanced up and down the road, but the way was entirely clear in all four directions, not a soul in sight. Finally, he sighed, moving around to the front of the truck. "Okay – but you do have a spare, right?"
"Of course," the man assured him. "But what–"
Bracing his legs, Buck grabbed onto the truck's bumper and lifted, hauling the truck almost a foot off the ground. Still sitting in the front seat, the woman yelped. "Do it quick," Buck told the man, setting his legs rigidly still. The man worked quickly, and finally he nodded to Buck, who carefully placed the front wheels back on the ground, eyeing the spare tire warily.
The man blinked. "How on earth did you manage that, stranger?" he wondered, staring at Buck in shock.
Buck shrugged, looking away. "You just need to lift with your legs."
"I see." The man furrowed his brows, examining Buck closely. "Well, if you need some new clothes and a hot meal, you can come home with us. We can set you up."
Sighing in relief, Buck nodded. "Thank you, monsieur."