"Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys; look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death." – Sun Tzu
Chapter 2 – Cold War
Stalingrad, November 8th 1942
The mood in Edelheim's command HQ was one of fraught silence, broken only by the boom and rattle of distant artillery as the venerable leader surveyed his field map of the city, his shrewd military mind analysing the complex situation. German and Russian positions had been plotted as accurately as possible, though they were often little more than educated guesses. Some buildings and key road junctions had been known to change hands half a dozen times in the space of a single day.
"This," Edelheim finally said, pointing to a big apartment block overlooking September 9th Square that had been identified as an enemy strongpoint. "This is the key to unlocking Stalingrad. We must take this building."
Koenig frowned, shaking his head slowly. "It's heavily defended, sir. We've lost two companies in that sector already."
The older man nodded, reaching for his packet of cigarettes and tapping one free. "They're afraid of it. They're afraid of what will happen if they lost it." He lit up and took a long, thoughtful draw, the vague battle plan already crystalizing into a decisive course of action. "If we take this sector, we collapse their left flank and roll up their entire defensive line. Stalingrad will be ours."
"It'll take time to assemble…" Koenig trailed off, alerted by a muted thump in the corridor outside. "What was that?"
But Edelheim's attention was focussed on the map, as if he could somehow master the situation through sheer force of will.
Another thump, followed by a low groan of pain.
Something was wrong. "Sir, there's –"
He never got a chance to finish. A crossbow bolt to the throat destroyed his windpipe. With blood pumping from severed arteries, he fell to his knees, clawing desperately at the bolt now protruding from the back of his neck. He was dead; he just didn't know it yet.
Fear was moving before Koenig hit the ground, slapping another bolt into his crossbow as he darted in through the doorway with inhuman speed. The other officers in the room were mostly support staff, more used to wielding pens than rifles. A second man fell to his weapon, a poison tipped bolt lodged in his chest.
On the other side of the room, Joy kicked open the door and rushed in a few seconds later, silently cursing the Fear's rash attack. She had explicitly ordered him not to move until she gave the command, intending to strike from both sides simultaneously. Still, they were committed now – there was no choice but to see it through.
Her eyes scanned the room for targets. The dozen or so men in there were panicked and shocked by the sudden attack, but that wouldn't last long. To her right, a young private with blonde hair was bringing his rifle to bear on her. Without hesitation she raised her submachine gun and put a burst into his centre mass, spraying his blood against the wall behind.
Beside her, Pain had seized a man who tried to charge him with a bayonet, lifted him bodily off the ground and crushed his throat. Their mission might be to capture Edelheim, but for the rest of the men in the command centre there would be no mercy.
Joy could see Edelheim now, exactly like in his file photograph. A tall man in his late forties, ruggedly handsome and aristocratic looking, his dark receding hair slicked back, which somehow added to his air of distinguished charisma. He was reaching for the Luger pistol holstered at his hip.
Instinctively she brought the PPSh to bear, knowing she had the drop on him, but a sudden blur of movement to her right drew her attention away. A young staff officer was charging her with a K98 bolt action rifle. A poor choice for a close action fight like this.
Twisting aside to avoid his clumsy attempt at bayoneting her, she raised the PPSh and fired from the hip. But rather than the short controlled burst she'd intended, the submachine gun carried on spitting fire as if it had a mind of its own. The trigger's retaining spring must have snapped, trapping the fire selector on full automatic. It was all she could do to keep a grip of the wildly kicking weapon as it discharged its full magazine in a single disastrous burst.
The effect on her target was akin to being passed through a paper shredder. He collapsed to the ground, his body quite literally shredded.
"I think you got him," the Fear taunted.
Joy said nothing as she dropped the now useless weapon, its barrel glowing red, and unsheathed her combat knife before rounding on Edelheim again. The whole mission was a bust if they didn't get him.
But her brief distraction had bought him time to draw his own weapon. Levelling it at the woman now stalking towards him, he fired. But to his disbelief, she was no longer there. She ducked aside just as the weapon discharged, twisting her body to avoid the shot. He saw a brief cloud of blood as the 9mm projectile sliced her shoulder, but still she came on.
Hurriedly adjusting his aim, he squeezed the trigger again, but suddenly her knife leapt out and slashed his forearm, severing tendons. The Luger fell from nerveless fingers, and he cried out in pain as she seized him, twisting his arm behind his back.
Joy was elated. She had him.
Now all she needed was to…
"Die, you fucking bitch!" a guard screamed in German.
Turning towards the source of the sound, she was just in time to see another guard draw a pistol. Where was the rest of her unit? They were supposed to have been covering her while she apprehended Edelheim!
Pain was busy pummelling an unfortunate staff officer's head into the wall, while Fury was somewhere in the corridor outside. She couldn't see him, but she could hear him bellowing curses in between bursts of automatic gunfire.
She felt a momentary upwelling of anger and frustration at the knowledge that nobody was covering her. Each member of her team was fighting as individuals instead of working together as a unit. They were ignoring everything she had tried to teach them.
An instant later she pushed those emotions down. Recriminations could come later. Right now survival was the priority.
Releasing her grip on Edelheim, Joy rushed forward, swept her knife up and drove it into the man's throat. With his blood coating her face, he staggered back and collapsed, dead almost as soon as he hit the floor.
But her lapse had bought Edelheim a few precious moments to recover. Whirling around, Joy was just in time to see him stagger out through the doorway and disappear into the corridor beyond.
Gripping the bloodied knife, she started forward in pursuit, only for a gloved hand to reach out and grasp her arm.
Spinning around with the knife raised, she found herself face to face with the sharp, lean features of the Fear.
"We can't stay here, Boss!" he hissed, anxiously watching the corridor outside. They had killed or wounded the inhabitants of the command post, but already shouts were echoing from deeper inside the building. "Time to go!"
She barely felt the pain from the gunshot wound in her shoulder, though she was curiously aware of the warm blood seeping down her arm. She would tend to the wound later.
"We're not leaving without Edelheim," she said, her jaw set with stubborn determination. This mission was all for nothing if they didn't kill or capture him.
"We're not leaving with him, that's for sure. They know we're here. It's over, Boss."
"Boss, come on!" Pain yelled, leaning out into the corridor to snap off a burst from his submachine gun. "We have to leave now! Fury, get back here!"
"Fuck off!" she heard Fury thunder back, accompanied by a long burst of fire from some kind of heavy machine gun.
"Forget him," Fear decided. "If he wants to die here, let him."
Before Joy could say anything further, the slender, nimble man had darted out into corridor, using Pain's considerable bulk as a human shield while he retreated.
"Fear!" Joy yelled after him. It was a futile effort – he was long gone. Resigning herself to the inevitable, she snatched up Edelheim's Luger and rushed after him. "Pain, Fury, we are leaving!"
Sprinting through the corridor and taking a sharp left, she practically ran right into a German soldier heading in the opposite direction. Almost without breaking stride she jammed the Luger against his forehead and put three rounds in him.
"Pain, watch your back!" she warned.
"And who will watch yours?" she heard him reply sardonically.
Shoving her way through the door to the makeshift latrine, Joy was just in time to see Fear lifting the drain cover aside, struggling with the heavy weight.
He looked up, his lips parting in an amused grin. "What took you so long, Boss?"
Joy took a step towards him, tempted to put a round through his head at that moment. Clearly the man didn't give a shit about any of them – he was out for nobody but himself.
Before she could act however, Pain pushed his way past her, shoved Fear aside and gripped the drain cover, lifting it and hurling it against the wall as easily as if it were a sheet of cardboard.
"No time for talking," he warned, leaping down into the darkness below.
"Couldn't have said it better myself," Fear agreed, following him.
Joy gritted her teeth, brimming with anger at the insubordination she'd witnessed. She was just clambering down the ladder when Fury burst into the room, a German MG-42 heavy machine gun clutched in his hands, its long belt of ammunition trailing along the floor. He was covered in cuts and bruises, his battle uniform shredded, yet he seemed not even to notice.
"The fuckers ran away," he said, as if that explained everything. Heedless of the danger, he leaned out into the corridor, levelled the weapon at the far end and pulled the trigger.
The din of the big weapon discharging on full automatic was absolutely deafening, drowning out even his ferocious battle cry as his full rage was unleashed. The foot-long muzzle flare illuminated the gloom like lightning. The barrel began to glow hot, melting through his gloves to burn the skin of his hands, but he didn't care. All he cared about was the death he was bringing to his most hated enemies.
Shaking her head, Joy released her grip on the ladder and allowed herself to drop down into the sewer below.
ooooo
Soviet Command Centre, September 9th Square
Charles Hunt he glanced up from his paperwork to see Joy standing before him, still in her muddy, torn battlefield uniform. She had come in straight off the front line to report back to him, wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible.
His 'office' was a former bedroom in the partially ruined apartment block that served as their company headquarters. There was no electricity, no heating, no running water. Light came courtesy of a pair of gas lamps that hissed and sputtered as if they might give out at any moment.
"Did you get him, then?" he asked without preamble. Small talk had never been a skill of his.
Joy said nothing for a long moment. Her hands, clasped behind her back, tightened into fists. "There were complications," she said tersely.
Leaning back in his chair, Hunt removed his reading glasses. Even in the filth and squalor of Stalingrad, Hunt somehow managed to keep himself clean, well dressed and well groomed, his dark hair neatly combed, his moustache precisely trimmed.
Joy suspected he'd been a bank manager in another life.
"What sort of complications, exactly?"
Hunt was a field attaché for British Military Intelligence Division 6, commonly known as MI6. Officially he was Joy's liaison with the Russians, but she knew the real reason he was here.
He was in Stalingrad to keep an eye on her. She was something of a black sheep of the special forces family. The British didn't trust her, the Americans didn't know what to do with her, and the Russians barely tolerated her. After all, a twenty year old 'girl' in charge of a unit of freaks, criminals and old men was a diplomatic nightmare just waiting to happen. She and her unit were nothing but an experiment, a brief indulgence that everyone expected to fail.
Determined to prove them wrong, she had done everything in her power to hold the unit together, to curb their wilder excesses and ensure they completed the tasks allocated to them. Thus far however the battle had been a losing one.
"We were forced to move early," she said, unwilling to elaborate. She wasn't going to pin the blame on specific members of her unit, regardless of her own feelings on the matter. As their commander, the blame ultimately fell on her. "Edelheim got away in the confusion."
"Our Russian comrades aren't going to like that."
Her eyes blazed for a moment. Let's see you infiltrate a heavily defended enemy position and make it out alive, Hunt. "It's war. Things don't always go to plan."
"Indeed." Hunt reached for the half full glass of whisky on his desk and tossed back the contents in one gulp. Talisker, his favourite brand, imported from Scotland.
He surveyed her for a long moment, saying nothing. His silence was more damning than any recrimination. He knew something he wasn't telling her, and he was trying to make her sweat by withholding the truth.
"We came close. We'll get him next time," she said, knowing how hollow her words sounded.
"There's not likely to be a 'next time', I'm afraid."
Joy frowned. "What do you mean?"
He held up a sheet of thin, cheap paper. A telex. "Orders from London. You and the Cobras are being evacuated from Stalingrad."
"Evacuated? Why?"
As if on cue, the building resounded with a deep, rolling boom from somewhere further off in the city. Fine streams of dust filtered down from the cracked ceiling.
"That's why," Hunt explained. "The Germans have brought up their heavy siege guns. They're massing two SS panzer divisions for their final assault, and when it comes they'll pound us to dust." He shrugged. "Stalingrad is going to fall."
The casual manner in which he delivered the news caused anger to flare up within her. He was talking about the city as if it were a football game, to be won or lost and then discussed later over a few quiet pints at the local pub.
"Technical specialists and non-essential personnel are being evacuated over the Volga. You have a place reserved on a boat tomorrow evening. If you have any interest in seeing your next birthday, I suggest you be on it. I know I will be."
"We're not technical specialists, Charles," she reminded him. "We're soldiers. We're here to fight."
"No, you're military advisors," he corrected her.
America was still officially neutral in this war. They couldn't be seen to be taking an active part in the conflict, which was part of the reason they had sent Joy. As a woman, few would believe she was part of the US military. She had no dog tags, no official service record, no proof that she even existed. Her entire life was off the books.
"Washington and London sent you here to assist the Red Army in the defence of Stalingrad. Pretty soon there won't be an army left to assist, therefore your mission here is over. Anyway, the powers that be aren't convinced this 'Cobra Unit' of yours is working out. They're bringing you home, pending evaluation."
Which meant they were being shit-canned.
She could take it no longer. Weeks of pent-up frustration finally got the better of her.
"This isn't over until I say so, damn it!" she snapped. "Just because my men don't sit around the fire each night drinking hot chocolate and singing songs doesn't mean they're any less of a unit. For God's sake, Stalingrad is the most important battle of the war and you're asking us to run away with our tails between our legs?"
To her surprise, his vivid green eyes flashed with anger.
"I'm asking you to follow orders, young lady!" he snapped, rising up from his desk. He was a big man, standing a couple of inches taller than herself, and more than a little intimidating when roused to anger. "There's more to being a soldier than fighting and killing. Anyone can do that. Being a soldier means obeying orders, even if you don't agree with them. You might be a child of the Philosophers, but out here you're just a pair of boots on the ground. Do we understand each other?"
Joy chewed her lip, sorely tempted to tell Hunt to ram his orders and his patronising attitude up his arse. Of course he knew she had connections amongst the Philosophers, that her father had been a member of the Wisemen's Committee. Men like Hunt made it their business to know such things, but that didn't make her feel any better.
"Yes, we understand each other."
His expression softened a little. "Look, I know you don't want to leave a job unfinished, but believe me, there'll be plenty of other battles before this war is over. You've been fighting on the front lines for two months without relief. Really, how much longer do you think you can go on like this?"
How long indeed?
She hadn't wanted to admit it to anyone, even herself, but the constant demands of fighting, the inevitable injuries that came with it, the sleepless nights, the limited food and the relentless, creeping cold were gradually wearing her down. She'd lost twenty pounds since coming here, her face now drawn and haggard, her eyes ringed by dark circles of fatigue.
"I'm fine," she lied.
Rounding his desk, Hunt laid a hand on her shoulder. Her injured shoulder. It was meant to be a casual, conciliatory gesture, but she knew why he'd done it. He could see she was hurt.
She managed to keep her face impassive as he squeezed a little, but her eyes betrayed the pain that blazed outward from her shoulder.
"Caught yourself a Blighty one there by the looks of things," he observed.
"Just a scratch."
He smiled. "As you Americans are fond of saying, don't bullshit a bullshitter. Get it looked at, for God's sake. I don't need you dying of gangrene the day before your evacuation."
"I want to go out tomorrow," she said, evading his instruction. "On patrol."
Hunt's eyes narrowed. "Denied."
"You said our boat was waiting tomorrow night. What else are we supposed to do except twiddle out thumbs on the dock? Give us one last patrol. We'll make some trouble for the Germans, take a few more of their officers out of circulation, then we'll leave. How does that sound?"
"One last hurrah, eh?"
"Something like that."
The older man surveyed her for several seconds, as if trying to detect some hidden intent behind her request, then finally he smiled. "You know, if we had a dozen of you, this war would be over by now."
She returned his smile, though it lacked warmth. "If you had a dozen of me, this war would never have started."
ooooo
The Cobra unit's base of operations was the dingy basement of a nearby house. Bombing and shelling had rendered the house above uninhabitable, but below ground it was still possible to survive, after a fashion. It was hardly a sprawling French chateau, but it served their purpose.
"Ow! Damn it!" Fury growled as a Soviet nurse bandaged his burned hands. Holding a heavy machine gun by the barrel while firing on full automatic had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he was paying the price for it now.
"Stop complaining," Pain said, leaning against a stack of sandbags fashioned into a crude chair as he wolfed down stale bread and cheese. "You still have the use of your hands. What do you have to worry about?"
Fury shot him an angry glare. "You might not feel pain, but I do. Ow!"
The nurse looked nervous as she finished up her work. She had reason to be. His exposed arms and hands were covered in tattoos, as was the rest of his body; all of it announcing that he had come from a Gulag. Crucifixes, numbers, symbols and pictures of guys fucking bears formed a complex code that told those who knew how to read them which prison he'd done time in, and for how long.
"I'll come back to change the dressings tomorrow," she said, packing away her limited medical kit as fast as she could. "In the mean time, try to keep them clean. Burns get infected easily."
The End had nothing to say in this discussion. He was lying in a corner, fast asleep and snoring loudly, his plate of coarse bread and meat almost untouched. He had accounted for a dozen German soldiers today, including three officers – not bad for an old man. They had long since lost count of the number of men he'd killed since arriving in Stalingrad.
Fury looked down at his heavily bandaged hands. "Great. How am I supposed to do that in a shit hole like Stalingrad?"
Reaching for the bottle of vodka beside him, he yanked the cork out with his teeth and took a deep gulp. That was all the pain relief he needed.
He almost jumped when a pair of heavy work gloves landed right in his lap.
"What the hell?"
Glancing up, he watched as Fear released himself from the rafters he'd been clinging to, dropping nimbly to the ground a few feet away.
"What are you about, Fear?" Fury demanded.
The slender, sharp-featured man drew himself up to his full height and flashed what might have been called a smile. "A gift… from our friends in the Wehrmacht. Took them from a flame thrower trooper, before I…" He shrugged, feeling no need to go on.
Setting aside the bottle of vodka, Fury examined the gloves. Designed to protect their user from the extreme heat of a flamethrower, they were both thermally resistant and a good barrier against dirt and bacteria. In short, they were exactly what he needed.
"This another one of your jokes?" he demanded.
Spotting the End's untouched meal, Fear snatched the plate up and ate like a starved man. "Take them, or don't. I don't care."
"Hmph." Hardly glowing praise, but it was about as close as he was likely to come to gratitude.
For once, his scowl eased and he looked down at the gloves again. "A flame thrower, eh?" he mused, already visualising the destruction he could spread with such a weapon.
The conversation was interrupted when the door flew open and Joy strode in, looking tired and unhappy.
"What news, Boss?" Fear asked.
Changing direction, she strode over to him, grabbed the slender man by his tunic and shoved him back against the wall. "What news?" she repeated through clenched teeth. "I'll tell you what news, Fear. We almost got killed today – all of us. You were supposed to be covering me while I took down Edelheim, but all you could think about was yourself.
Releasing her grip, she turned her wrath on the two other men who had accompanied her into the train station.
"None of you have learned anything I tried to teach you!" Her Russian was becoming more broken as she struggled for control. "I have tried to turn you into a unit, but every time I show trust in you, you let me down." She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. "Washington, London and Moscow want this unit to fail. And you know what? I think they'll get their wish."
Joy could say nothing more to them. She had no pep talk, no inspiring words to motivate them all. She just felt drained and exhausted.
Letting the matter drop, she turned away and walked through to the basement's second room. Partitioned off from the main living space by a thick woollen blanket, it was about ten feet wide and fifteen feet long, with enough space for a small bed, a desk on which to write reports, and a wash stand. This was her quarters, such as they were.
Hunt had insisted she sleep separately from the rest of her unit, not just because she was a woman, but because she was their leader. A leader shouldn't associate themselves with the men they led. That was his philosophy, at least.
Unlatching the straps on her combat webbing, she allowed it to fall on the floor, glad to be free of the weight. This done, she unbuttoned her ripped, bloodied, mud-covered tunic and did likewise, leaving her wearing just a thin undershirt. She made her way over to the wash basin and unbuttoned the shirt, wincing at the moment in her injured shoulder as she shrugged out of it.
"Shit," she said under her breath, examining the wound in her cracked, grimy mirror.
The 9mm Luger round had torn through the deltoid muscle at her shoulder, leaving a snaking wound about two inches long. The bleeding had slowed to a steady ooze, though dried blood still coated her arm. She didn't think it had done too much damage. If it had been a little further to the right, it would likely have shattered the bone and put her out of action for good.
She'd been lucky.
Then again, if she'd been lucky she wouldn't have taken the hit in the first place.
She kept a bottle of vodka on the writing desk. She'd never considered herself a heavy drinker, but sometimes when she came back from the front line she was still fired up. The vodka helped take the edge off.
Steeling herself, she took a deep gulp, forcing herself to swallow. The potent drink burned its way down her throat, lighting a fire in her stomach that blazed outward, easing away the pain of her numerous injuries.
The second lot of vodka she splashed over the wound, gritting her teeth as the alcohol stung the torn flesh. Still, she'd rather endure a little pain than end up with gangrene. Most soldiers who died here died as a result of infection, not the wounds themselves.
Unfolding a small suture kit, she went to work stitching the wound back together, grimacing each time the needle bit into her flesh. Her sewing skills were mediocre at best, but after five minutes or so she'd made half a dozen small stitches to hold it together.
Taking another sip of vodka, she surveyed herself in the mirror, appraising her appearance for what felt like the first time in weeks. She'd never decided if she was an attractive woman or not, whether her features could be considered beautiful. It didn't matter much to her either way. She wasn't one of those pampered, preened women she saw so often back home, always clad in immaculate dresses designed to flaunt their bodies, hair perfectly styled, makeup flawless.
No doubt they would be horrified by her appearance at that moment, with her unwashed hair hanging in disarray, her face smeared with grime, soot and blood, her body covered with cuts, grazes and bruises. She was thin too, her ribs plainly visible against pale skin, her cheeks sunken, her eyes hollow.
Vanity wasn't one of her vices, but even she recognised that she looked like hell. She'd been fighting every day almost since her arrival, and it was taking its toll on her, both physically and mentally.
Ten minutes later, courtesy of some water from her canteen and a wash cloth, she at least looked a little better, even if she didn't feel it. Sitting on her bed, she was just lighting up a cigar when the drape parted and the Sorrow walked in, somehow managing to move without making a sound.
Tall, lean, pale and gaunt, and with piercing blue eyes hidden behind thick glasses, there was something unnerving about the man from the first moment one met him. He dealt with the dead, and somehow, Joy always felt that part of him remained in that shadowy other place where they resided.
The other Cobras tended to stay away from him, treating him with, if not respect, then at least a certain wariness and caution that normal people were not afforded. Even Joy was a little unsure around him, and that was rare indeed for her.
He surveyed her for a long moment, then smiled. But it was a strange half smile, as if he'd just heard the punch line of a familiar joke. "It is good to see you again, Joy."
Unlike the others, he never called her Boss. He never had.
Joy took a draw on the cigar as she stared back at him. The Cobras each bore the scars of the prolonged fighting at Stalingrad, and the Sorrow was no different. He had never been a robust looking man, but even she could see the difference in him. He was tired and worn, his constant forays into the spirit world slowly sapping his strength.
For some reason, it made her feel better. At least it reminded her that he was indeed human.
"You were gone a long time," she observed.
He nodded. "I was… conversing with Lieutenant Koenig after you sent him on his way." Again that curious half smile. "He was most disappointed to have been killed by a woman."
"Most men are." She cocked a blonde eyebrow. "Even the dead are giving me a hard time these days."
The Sorrow said nothing.
"That was a joke."
"I know."
Joy let that one go. Humour had never been his forte.
His piercing gaze moved to her shoulder. "You're hurt."
"It's just a scratch," she said, feeling strangely defensive. "No big deal."
"You push yourself too hard." He lowered himself down onto the edge of the bed. "Even you can't keep fighting forever."
"It's not like you to be so concerned," she said, surprised. Normally he expressed little interest in anyone or anything in the physical world. It wasn't that he didn't care, but almost as if their wellbeing was a foreign concept to him. "I thought you were more interested in the dead."
"I would rather not see you become one of them, Joy," he admitted. He seemed poised to say more, then thought better of it.
She shrugged, dismissing the notion. "Well, it looks like you'll get your wish. Hunt's pulling the plug, shipping us out of Stalingrad."
"When?"
"Tomorrow night. We'll put in one last patrol, make some trouble, then leave."
"Don't go," he said suddenly.
Joy frowned. "What?"
Without warning he reached out and grasped her wrist, staring straight into her eyes. "Tomorrow. The patrol. Don't go, Joy. Just get on the boat and leave."
"Why? What's going to happen tomorrow?"
Sorrow couldn't see the future any more than she could. At least, not that he'd ever admitted to her. Sometimes she wondered though.
He said nothing, just kept staring at her. Cold seemed to radiate out from his grip, creeping up her arm.
"Sorrow, as your commander, I order you to tell me," she said, managing to keep her voice calmer than she felt. "What will happen to us tomorrow?"
"He's coming for you," the Sorrow replied, speaking in a voice that was not his own. It was a dead man's voice, cold and hollow. The mere sound raised goosebumps.
Suddenly he released his grip and stood up, pale and shaking.
"I've said all I can," he whispered. "Listen to me, Joy. Just this once. Don't go."
