We Were Soldiers
138. Where We're Meant To Be
Steve watched the car leave and felt his heart tugging in a now-familiar way. Seeing Peggy again after a month in France… it was like taking a deliciously cold shower on a hot summer day. He didn't feel tiredness like normal men, but the constant fighting, day after day, the noise and the chaos and the loss… it had brought its own special brand of fatigue with it, a tiredness of the mind and soul.
Then Peggy had come, and just being near her had washed it away again. He'd been refreshed, ready to do another month of struggle if necessary. Was that love? He'd always thought love was a physical thing, a deep attraction felt between men and women. And she was attractive; the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. But this was different. This was just… everything being right simply because he was with her.
He heard snickering behind him and tried not to blush as he turned back to his team. "We should get going," he said, clearing his throat.
"You sure, Cap?" asked Dugan. His bushy moustache did a poor job of hiding his childish grin. "I mean, we've got time if you wanna watch the dust from her car a little longer."
"Give him a break, guys," said Morita, in an unusually mature display of charity. "I'd make puppy-eyes down the road if I had a dame as pretty as Carter to watch."
Dernier approached and clapped him on the shoulder. "Ignore these buffoons, eh? Before this war, there was a girl I much admired, and my greatest regret is that I did not tell her so. Do not make that mistake, mon ami. If love is a bull, you must grab her by the horns, non?"
"Thank you, Jacques, I'm glad at least one of my teammates has some emotional maturity," he said, with a pointed look at Bucky. His best friend merely grinned. He was normally the first to tease him about Carter, so it was a miracle he hadn't said anything yet. "Anyway, we need to get moving. Like the lady said, we've got a lot of ground to cover. We'll split up into two teams of three, and—"
"Three teams of two will go faster," Bucky spoke up.
"But two teams of three is safer," he countered. He expected an argument, but Bucky merely shrugged. Six months ago, he would've defended his point to the death. Now, that fight had gone out of him. It was as if he didn't even care that Steve wasn't listening to his opinion. And that hurt a little. He wanted Bucky to care. "Okay. Three teams of two it is. You're right, we'll cover more ground if we split up into pairs." That, too, got nothing but a shrug from Bucky. "Jones, Dugan, I want you to check out what's on this side of the border. I don't know whether the Russians will reach Poland first or Czechoslovakia, so let's give them as much as we can. Morita, Dernier, head on down to the south-east, follow the river and scope out the industrial zone that runs along it. It would be great if we knew exactly what they're manufacturing in this area. Bucky and I will head south-west and go take a look at that Nazi airfield, along with any security forces along the way. Meet back here in five hours. That'll give us one hour to rendezvous with the rest of our team, then head back to the plane. This is a recon mission, so don't engage unless you have to. I don't want the Krauts to know we were here until we're long gone."
They offered salutes, even Bucky, and started up their bikes. Somehow, the Polish Resistance had gotten their hands on German bikes, so they were in pretty decent condition. As Dugan and Jones roared away to the north, and Morita and Dernier took the road south-east, Steve nodded at his friend and received a nod back in turn. It was time to go to work.
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Peggy's mouth was as dry as the Sahara as their driver stopped the car outside the compound gates. The man at the wheel was a German national, but his marriage to a Polish Jew had cemented his loyalties firmly to the Poles in this war. He was a tall, stoic man, who spoke in nods and grunts more than words, and he seemed little fazed by the approach of the Nazi guards stationed at the gatehouse.
"Remember," she hissed quickly in English. "You are not under any circumstances to attempt to speak German. If anybody says anything to you, just look down your nose in disdain at them, and wait for Major Falsworth or I to respond on your behalf."
"Act snooty," Howard agreed. "Got it."
His presence on the mission complicated things, but he needed to see for himself what facilities Schmidt had set up here. Only by looking around himself could he get a better idea of what Schmidt might be working on. It wasn't an ideal situation, but this whole war was wasn't an ideal situation. Sometimes you just had to play the hand you were dealt, and right now, she'd been dealt Howard Stark. Time would tell whether he'd be the ace up their sleeve, or the joker in the pack.
"Don't worry." Major Falsworth glanced over his shoulder from the passenger seat to offer her a tiny reassuring smile. "Germans are sticklers for formality. We have the right credentials, and we're expected. Nothing will go wrong."
"It could still be a trap," she replied. She and Phillips had gone over this half a dozen times before the mission's start. He'd impressed upon her that Howard Stark could not be allowed to fall into Schmidt's hands.
Perhaps we should fit him with a cyanide capsule, she'd joked.
We don't need a cyanide capsule when we have you, he'd replied, and there had been no joke about it.
Major Falsworth frowned. "A trap? You mentioned nothing of this to Captain Rogers."
"His mission is just as important as ours," she countered. "There was no point distracting him with hypotheticals." Besides, she wasn't entirely sure that he would've let them drive off without a fuss if he'd had any inkling of her suspicions. He was a good man, but sometimes good man and good soldier were not the same thing. A good soldier got the mission done no matter the cost. Steve still had a habit of thinking with his heart, rather than his head. It was endearing, but right now, she needed a different Steve. One who would put the freedom of the entire world above her own safety.
They fell silent as the guard approached and offered a salutatory heil Hitler. Peggy bit her tongue. Much as she hated Hitler and everything he had done, it rankled even more that this man faked allegiance to a leader he no longer followed. Every soldier in this facility was Hydra through and through, hand-picked by Schmidt for their ruthless dedication to his cause.
"Good afternoon," their driver said. It helped immensely that he spoke German without any hint of another accent. Dressed as he was in his SS uniform, nobody had any reason to doubt him. "We are here on the order of Herr Himmler to conduct a routine inspection of this facility."
The guard glanced inside at the occupants of the car, and Peggy held her breath. They'd all been furnished with SS uniforms, courtesy of the Poles, and had been as coiffed to perfection as the Resistance could manage. But there was no denying that none of them was stereotypically Aryan. Between her, Falsworth, Stark, and their brown-haired driver, there was not a single blond hair in sight. But then, the ideal often outweighed reality. Hitler himself did not meet his own 'perfect Germanic specimen'.
"You are cleared for entry," the soldier said at last. "Follow the road to loading bay two, where you will be met by Kommandant Strucker."
She glanced to Howard at the mention of the name. Strucker? They'd been told Fischer himself would be the one to lead their 'tour'. Had something happened to the man? Had his treachery been discovered? Were they now, more than ever, walking into a trap?
There was no time for discussion. The gate opened, the soldier stepped aside, and their driver continued forward. Now they were well and truly within the belly of the beast.
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The roar of the motorbikes was deafening in his ears, but for the first time in what felt like weeks, Bucky smiled. Wind in his hair and power beneath his seat; if this wasn't freedom, nothing was. A shame the freedom of the open road led towards a mission, but nothing was ever perfect. That was how he knew he was alive; nothing was too good to be true.
He followed Steve's lead, sticking to his best friend's tire tracks as closely as possible. Whatever had happened to him in Krausberg, however he had changed, he was still no match for his friend. Steve's eyesight, his reflexes, his intuition, had been honed to perfection. Bucky knew that he himself was nothing but a jigsaw piece of broken parts. That was what Schmidt and Zola had been trying to do. Break a thing, then remake it in their image. They didn't understand that once a thing was broken, it could never be put back whole. It would always have faults and flaws. It would always have stress lines and weakness where the glue held the pieces in place. Something shattered and remade would never be as perfect as something whole.
After a couple of dozen miles, Steve eased off the throttle. His bike slowed, and Bucky followed suit. An old access path off the main road gave them a good place to pull over, and they rode perhaps fifty paces up the dirt track before switching off their engines and dismounting.
The afternoon air was warm, and filled with biting insects. Bucky swatted at them, and as he did the same, Steve offered him a pained smile.
"Kinda hoped the insects would find me less appetising," he said.
Bucky shook his head. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that insects will eat anything. That's why they'll rule the world once we're all gone."
"Err, what?"
"Yeah, Stark mentioned it one time. I don't even remember how we got onto the subject"—they rushed Franklin to the hospital tent as he tried to use a knife to gouge out the chiggers that he thought were burrowing beneath his skin—"but he said that when the next big extinction event comes, all that will be left is bugs, and they'll make a feast out of everything else." They'd had to sedate Franklin, at that point. Poor guy.
"Well, I guess it's comforting to know that life will go on, even if it's annoying, itchy, bitey life." Steve slapped at a fly and knocked it clean out of the air. If they survived this war, every baseball team in the world would fight to sign him. They might even start a whole new war over him.
Bucky shrugged. That sorta talk… it was big picture stuff. A year ago, he might've cared about the big picture. Maybe even been arrogant enough to believe he could affect it. Now… he lived from little picture to little picture. Survive another day. A week. Live long enough to find Zola. Schmidt. Make them pay. After that, it didn't matter. Birds or bugs or people, whatever survived this mess of a war was welcome to whatever was left of the world.
"We gonna stand here talking about bugs all night?" he asked.
"I guess not." Steve sounded… what? Hurt? Disappointed? A year ago, Bucky would've done whatever it took to cheer up his friend. Because Steve needed him. That was how it had always been. Bucky and Steve. Steve and Bucky. But Steve didn't need him anymore. Steve had… well… Steve. He was a new man. He had Carter. Phillips. Stark. The Commandos. A legion of fans. The little guy from Brooklyn had grown up, and was showing everyone exactly what he was made of, and the world was finally taking notice. "C'mon, I think I remember seeing a military installation a little to the west of here."
They set off on foot, and Bucky let his fingers brush against his sidearm. The refuel of the plane that brought them here had included a minor resupply, which meant everyone now had enough bullets in their sidearms to defend themselves, but only Stark could give him the special ammo he needed for the SSR-03. Until they got back to England, his rifle was useless.
"How do you think the others are doing?" he asked. It had to be eating Steve up that he only got to see Carter for a short time after spending a whole month itching to see her again.
"I have every faith in them," his friend replied. "They'll get the job done, no matter what that job is."
"Have you considered that this could be a trap?" It was always prudent to consider the matter of traps, where the Krauts were concerned. They were sneaky like that. "I mean, our top scientist, our liaison, and one of our team. That would be a hell of a catch for someone who wanted to earn favour with Schmidt."
Steve stopped and turned to look at his friend. It was hard to judge his emotional state while he was wearing the masked helmet, but his gaze was steady enough. "Of course I've considered it. It was the first thing that came into my mind while Peggy was briefing us. And if it does turn into a trap, then it won't work. If they take our people, then I'll go get them. We don't leave anyone behind, right?"
He kicked a small stone that lay by his foot, trying to ignore how close to home that sentiment had hit. He'd left people behind. Nestor and Tipper and Hawkins and Wells… he hadn't seen their bodies. Not himself. "It's not always possible to save everybody," he said quietly.
"I know." Momentary anguish passed across his eyes. Was he thinking of that young Private he hadn't been able to find? Parker, was it? "When I was little, I asked my mom why my dad had left us. Why God had taken him from us before I could even have a chance to meet him. She told me, since the beginning of time, God has been fighting a war against evil and chaos, but he can't fight alone. He needs soldiers, and sometimes he needs the best of them to fight for him. So he took my father, because as much as we needed him here, God needed him more. I hope this mission isn't a trap. But if it is, I'm prepared to do whatever is necessary to rescue our people. To save Peggy. If I'm too late, if I can't save her, then I'll know it wasn't because of anything I did or didn't do. I'll know it's because she's a good soldier, and God needs her. I'm sure she'll be running the place within a day of getting there, if that's the case, and one day I'll see her again. Just like I'll see my Mom and Dad again."
"That's a nice sentiment," he lied. It sounded like hell. A tireless war between good and evil? A fight that never ended? Wasn't there enough fighting to be done in life? Was it truly what awaited them in death? That was not a heaven he wanted to see. "Y'know, I think your dad would be proud of you. Not because of what you're doing, but because of who you are."
"Thanks, pal. I hope so." He smiled and gave Bucky a gentle punch on the shoulder. "But I'd rather not think about all this grim stuff right now. Until I hear otherwise, I'm going to assume this isn't a trap. That we've caught Schmidt with his pants down, and that the mission will proceed as planned. Hope for the best, right?"
"Right." Almost. Wasn't it, hope for the best, but plan for the worst? Did the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan have a plan for this mission going sideways? "So, where's this Nazi airfield?"
The access road continued, but swiftly became little more than an old dirt track that hadn't seen recent use. That wasn't surprising; latest reports suggested German air strength had been decimated. The Krauts had over-extended their reach and lost whatever air superiority they'd once possessed. U-boats were the biggest problem now.
A couple of miles out from the airfield, Steve lowered himself to a crouch to avoid being seen against the skyline as he hunted for the best vantage point. They found it as the sun began to sink towards the horizon, a craggy hill at the foothold of a low mountain chain. Halfway up, they located an outcropping, and peered over it into the valley below.
The airfield was abuzz with activity. A few planes sat out on the runway, whilst others were being towed into position by German vehicles. They looked shiny and new; clearly the Krauts were ramping up production, trying to replace their heavy losses. Bucky recognised the outline of several Stukas, the likes of which had plagued the 107th as they made their way through Italy last year. A second type of plane was present, too.
"What're those?" he whispered to Steve, gesturing to the other design.
"Messerschmitt fighters," he replied. Since arriving in London he'd spent most of his free time—when not mooning over Carter and cruelly forcing the Commandos to run 10k races—poring over war manuals and technical specs. "This isn't good. The Stukas are a pain, but they're not hard to take down. The Messerschmitts can put up a fight in the sky, which means an added threat to allied planes."
"Wanna head down there and deal with them?" It shouldn't be too hard. There didn't seem to be more than a few dozen men on the runway. Steve ought to be able to handle them, while Bucky tried his hand at sabotage.
The answer was a resounding head shake. "Intel, Buck. That's why we're here. To be covert and gather information that will help our allies. There's no way we can deal with that airfield without making our presence known, and if that happens, the whole area will go on high alert. It will jeopardise the rest of the team, and put the entire mission at risk."
"Pity. I would've enjoyed blowing up a few Stukas." They were the reason the 107th had lost Franklin and Davies. Hiding from Stukas in an old mine… it wasn't a good way to go. Hopefully they'd managed to avoid God's conscription drive up there. Though, if God had a Syndicate, Davies was probably running it by now.
"Maybe we'll get an opportunity in the future, when the stakes aren't as high. C'mon, let's head back; we've used up half our time already."
"Yeah, you're right. Bigger picture stuff, huh? A few planes aren't worth jeopardising the mission. Not when we're closing in on Schmidt and Zola. They're our true mission," he agreed.
"And stopping Hydra," Steve added.
"Of course. That's the most important thing." Luckily, putting a bullet in the heads of those two would stop Hydra in its tracks. There were only so many heads the organisation could grow back once pruned.
Steve paused, hesitating only briefly before speaking. "Buck, when we get back to London, I want you to see a doctor." He rushed on as Bucky opened his mouth to object. "This is non-negotiable. Back in France, in that Hydra facility—"
"That was nothing. A painful memory coming back. That's all."
"You took a hit and took a little too long to shake it off." Steve had that stubborn look about him. The one that said he was gonna keep getting up no matter how many times he was told to stay down. "Full physical and mental exam. I need to know that my best friend is a hundred percent. Captain America needs to know that his sharpshooter is fit for duty. It's better that you do it on my terms than on Colonel Phillips'; I'll let you pick your doctor."
"Fine." He could pass a medical exam, no problem. He was the fittest he'd ever been. And the sanest he'd ever been. He finally understood that his purpose in this war was simply to stop Schmidt. Once that was done, the souls of the dead could rest easy, and justice would be served. "I'll see a doctor." He had just the man in mind.
"Glad you understand. C'mon, let's get back. The sooner we rendezvous with the team, the sooner we get back to London. I can't tell you how badly I want to shower."
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"And here the ore is refined," said Kommandant Strucker, gesturing proudly at an enormous machine that spewed black smoke through a narrow chimney and out into the night. "Our scientists believe we have only just tapped the surface of this particular seam, so the Führer can expect shipments for many years to come."
"This will please him greatly," said Monty, their designated spokesperson. "It is the intention of the Führer to increase production of aircraft threefold over the next year, and the ore that comes from this facility will be vital in realising his plans. Now, our final inspection point is your shipping arrangements. We will need to examine your loading area, as well as cross-check your transport plans."
The smile offered by Kommandant Strucker was cold and formal, the smile of a man who knew he had to acquiesce but was not happy about it. Of course, he'd been playing the Nazis for fools for some time, secretly serving Schmidt whilst professing loyalty to Hitler. This feigned civility had to grate at him. Peggy tried to tell herself that an enemy divided was an enemy weakened, but it still make her sick to her stomach to look at his face.
"Of course. I'm sure you will be more than happy with the security of our shipping. Please, come with me."
The Kommandant clearly did not trust his visitors; why else would he personally oversee their visit? As they walked down the bare concrete corridors that would not have been out of place in a British ore processing facility, Peggy kept her eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. Any one out of the ordinary. The message from the man named Fischer implied that he himself would be meeting them. Had they read the message wrong? Or had Fischer been discovered as a double agent? If that was the case, then one wrong step could see them all shot on sight. The two guards who followed behind as escorts for their group were undoubtedly loyal to Hydra and would not hesitate to kill them at Strucker's command. If Fischer had been compromised, then even breathing his name might mean instant death—and that was if they were lucky.
Beside her, Howard Stark scratched at his nose. The smell of the facility was metallic and acrid, an unpleasant stench that had been slowly giving her a headache since they'd stepped foot inside the plant. No doubt Kommandant Strucker had lodgings off-site; no commanding officer would want to live this smell twenty-four hours a day.
"What is this?" Monty asked suddenly. He'd stopped in the corridor to examine a dark stain on a lower part of the wall.
Strucker scowled, then quickly righted his face and affected an air of nonchalance. "Nothing to concern yourself about."
"It looks like blood. Explain yourself, or this will go into the report."
The Kommandant's left hand curled into a fist, then quickly unfurled. Peggy wished desperately for her sidearm, but they'd had to come unarmed to keep up pretenses.
"It is good that you are being thorough," the man said through clenched teeth. "I can respect a man who performs his duties with due diligence. You are right; it is blood. Two nights ago, we received information that one of the scientists working in the laboratory here had been plotting against the Führer." A gun. Oh god, how she badly wanted a gun right now. How could the men in the corridor not hear her heart trying to frantically beat its way out of her chest? "When I confronted him, he ran, and was shot by the guards. Despite our best efforts to keep him alive for interrogation, he died from his injuries."
"This information is troubling," said Monty. What a fantastic actor he was. Didn't even skip a beat as he feigned mild concern, all while Peggy tried to calm herself from having a full blown panic attack. If this went sideways, she was the cyanide pill. She did not want to be cyanide. Ever. "What was the man's name? Perhaps he wasn't working alone. Did you question the rest of the staff?"
"Doctor Fischer," Kommandant Strucker said. Peggy fought the urge to wipe the back of her hand across her forehead. She was sweating. She had to be. Any minute now, Strucker would look at her and read her mind and know exactly who she was. All he had to do was glance at Howard's pale face to read the undisguised horror written on it. The Kommandant raised a defiant chin. "And of course, we questioned them at length. Perhaps you do not know this, but before I was transferred here to oversee production, I worked for the Gestapo. I know how to loosen tongues. Doctor Fischer was working alone; on this you have my guarantee. To be safe, I made an example out of several of his colleagues. The rest will never even dream of giving us trouble."
Monty inclined his head. "Very well. I will of course need to include this information in the report—please note it down," he said as an aside to Peggy, nodding as she jotted a quick note on the papers of her clipboard, "But I will also add that the situation has been resolved and is under your control. Please make sure you report any further incidents of this nature."
"Of course." The fake smile on Strucker's face said he would do nothing of the sort. "If you please, let us finish this review."
The loading bay he took them to was well guarded, and for good reason. The two-dozen workers who pushed heavy carts ladened with refined ore towards the waiting lorries were dirty and dishevelled, and they all had one thing in common; the Star of David branded into their emaciated cheeks.
"As you can see," said Strucker, "we toil around the clock to provide the Führer with the materials he needs to continue this war. Production never ceases, and our workforce is constantly on the go."
We toil around the clock. Our workforce is constantly on the go. What he meant was that they worked their Jewish slaves to death. The men who toiled, for there were no women amongst them, were a stark reminder that the war was more than just about stopping one dictator; it was about protecting freedom for all peoples. For saving what was left of Europe's Jews before Hitler could kill them all. Not since freeing Michael and the others from a German work camp had she seen such deprivation. The soldiers were well-fed and well-clothed while the prisoners wore rags and starved.
"Take a look over here," said Kommandant Strucker. "You can examine our weekly manifest.
As he led Monty towards a desk stacked with papers, Howard stepped towards her and gently squeezed her hand. "I know. It breaks my heart too. But even if we could get these prisoners out of this facility, we have no way of getting them out of this country. The plane is already at maximum capacity."
"Is my face so easy to read?" she whispered, blinking back unshed tears.
"No. But I know you well enough to understand what's going through your mind. I'm gonna go fiddle with one of those carts, maybe see if I can get the guards to follow me. Take a look around if you get the chance."
She didn't have any time to object as Howard strode away and made a small show of examining the contents of a cart. The two guards stuck closely to him, clearly believing that a man tinkering posed a greater threat than a woman left unguarded. Peggy quickly slipped into the shadows between two large machines, and took a look around.
Engineering had never been her strong suit. The machine she saw was some sort of sorting device. Chunks of ore were carried down a conveyor belt and passed into the body of the machine. Some chunks came out of one conveyor belt and were dropped into the carts that the prisoners took aside, while other chunks were fated for a different conveyor that dumped them into a large, cylindrical container. To the naked eye, the chunks looked the same, so what was the machine sorting for?
A hand clamped over her mouth as an arm was wrapped around her body, and she took in a deep breath, preparing to scream. "Do not make a sound," a voice by her ear warned. "Or the guards will shoot us both before we can blink an eye." Her racing heart said scream, her body said throw your head back and break his nose, while her mind cautioned wait and see. "I'm going to release you now, Fraulein. Be silent when I do, and step back into the shadow, where we are not so easily seen. Ja?"
She nodded and was released. Slowly, she turned, taking a step back towards the shadows, towards the man standing there. His clothes were not so dirty, his cheeks not so gaunt as the other prisoners. And there was something else missing.
"You're not Jewish," she said.
"Nein. Up until two days ago, I worked here. Now, I am just another corpse, waiting to die."
"You worked with Herr Fischer. You're one of the scientists they made an example of."
He nodded, and pushed a pair of spectacles up his nose. "I don't expect to live very long. Conditions are tough, the guards are cruel, and the other prisoners have no love for Germans. One way or another, I will meet an accident. Perhaps it is no more than I deserve."
"If you've already accepted your fate, then what do you want from me?" she asked.
"From you? Nothing. But I have something for you." He opened his jacket to pull out a wad of tattered papers. "Shipping orders. Schmidt needs ore, and lots of it. Here, we mine it and refine it, but we do not make the parts that he needs." He thrust the papers into her hands, closing her fingers around them. "You must find The Forge."
"The Forge? What is that?"
"I do not know. Nor do I know where it is. All I do know is that it's where the ore is sent." He glanced at the machine behind her. "It is where he makes his weapons."
"Schmidt. The machine. That's what it's for? It sorts by purity?"
"Yes. The purest goes to The Forge, to become weapons for Schmidt. The rest goes to Hitler. It is still fine quality; very fine. But whatever Schmidt needs it for, it must be the highest grade. If we send the lesser ore, somehow,= he knows. Those papers explain the refining process; it was developed by Schmidt himself. Perhaps your scientists can divine the reason for it from this."
"What went wrong?" she demanded. "With Fischer. He was supposed to meet us."
"He was discovered requesting this inspection. Schmidt does not like oversight."
Discovered? If Schmidt knew that Fischer was the one who'd filed for the investigation… "What about the rest of my team?" She stepped forward, and wished she could be more menacing. "Are they in danger?"
"No. Herr Fischer submitted his request to the SS. Strucker does not know that it was intercepted by your people. As far as he knows, you truly have been sent by Himmler. He won't move against you." He glanced up to the guards, who were showing a little too much interest in Howard. "That's all I can say. Go and make as much use of this information as you can. I do not know what Johann Schmidt is planning, but I pray that you can stop him."
He stepped back and disappeared behind another piece of machinery, gone from her reach. She quickly tucked the papers into the breast pocket of the Nazi uniform she'd been given, and tried not to think of how many people had died to get these to her.
She tried not to look at the Jewish prisoners as she collected Howard and returned to Major Falsworth's side. Try not to see their dull expressions of pain and defeat, and tried not to think of how much suffering they had yet to endure. Hopefully, what the team accomplished here today would help to bring about an end to the Nazis and their regime of cruelty. Finally, they had a solid lead. Whatever and wherever The Forge was, the SSR would find it.
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They arrived back at their rendezvous point in the nick of time. It wasn't time itself that was against them, rather, an issue of fuel. A tank of gas in a bike didn't get you as far as a tank of gas in a car, and they were running on fumes for the last mile. Bucky turned off his engine, whilst Steve's merely sputtered and stopped, allowing him to roll to a halt.
"Too bad we didn't come across a gas station on the way," said Steve.
"Yeah. I mean, who wouldn't leap at the opportunity to serve Captain America on one of his top secret missions?"
"I hope the rest of the team doesn't have the same issue."
"Don't worry, they'll be here. None of them went as far as us. But then, that was your plan, wasn't it?"
Steve offered a sheepish smile that made him look years younger. "You got me. I figured if anything went sideways, you and I could make it back on foot easier than the rest. You're running a pretty quick ten-kay these days."
So. Steve had noticed that, too. Bucky had always been good at track, one of the fastest runners on his high school team, but this was different. He was setting Olympic times. Better than Olympic times. How long before the rest of the team noticed? Maybe they already had.
Thoughts of high school brought back a memory of Steve being shoved into a locker after a particularly vicious game of dodgeball that saw his team lose spectacularly.
"Can I ask you a question?" he asked.
"Always."
"Remember Danny Kavanagh?"
"How could I forget?" A tight smile pulled at Steve's lips. Memories of childhood were always bittersweet for him. They had some good times. But also some awful times. Sometimes the two were so closely intertwined that it was hard to separate them. "My first and longest lasting bully. That guy hated me from the moment I transferred into your class in junior school, and made it his personal mission to torment me until we graduated high school."
"If you had the chance now to do to him what he did to you then, would you?"
Steve's eyebrows rose. "You mean payback? Revenge?" He shook his head. "The Parker kid I told you about, he asked something similar. If I behave like them, then it makes me no better than them. Strong and weak are relative terms, and just because I'm stronger than they are doesn't give me the right to abuse that strength. Down that path lies endless pain. They hurt me. I hurt them. They hurt me back. I hurt them more. It's gotta stop somewhere. If it needs to stop with me… that's fine. I don't need to have the last word, or throw the last punch. The greatest victory is that which requires no battle."
"Lincoln?"
"Sun Tzu. Dug it out of the SSR's library archives, but it makes a lot of sense." He glanced down the road, his head cocked to one side as the last of the sunlight faded away. There was no question; the days were getting shorter. It was getting dark a little bit earlier than it had two weeks ago. "Someone's coming. On motorbikes. Might be our guys."
Or it might be a Nazi patrol. To be on the safe side, they pushed their bikes off the road and into the trees, where they couldn't be easily seen. Their caution turned out to be unnecessary; Morita and Dernier pulled up and dismounted, the former offering a cheery salute.
"There's a lot going on down-river," he said. "I've put some crosses on my map; figure we've got plenty of juicy targets for the Soviets to hit, once they reach this point."
"And you weren't seen?"
"We were as stealthy as a mouse in a church," said Jacques. Everyone else looked at him quizzically. "What, you do not know this saying?"
"I think that's quiet as church mice," said Morita. "And I'm not sure that's what it means."
"Somebody else is coming," said Steve, his gaze once more on the road, though this time in the opposite direction. "It's Peggy."
"How can you tell? You got some sorta dame-RADAR you haven't mentioned before?"
"Their car engine was making an odd noise, like something wasn't firing right inside it. I can hear that same noise now."
A moment of waiting proved him right. An insufferably happy smile spread across his face as Carter, Monty and Stark exited the car. But he kept his professional air as he asked, "Report?"
"Mission accomplished, Captain," said Monty. "We have intelligence to act on, and Mr Stark was able to get a good look at some of the equipment they're using."
"They're definitely manufacturing arms," Stark spoke up. "My guess is that whatever Schmidt is using to power his guns requires an ore with minimal impurity. But there's something more. The quantity at which they're producing it is too great for small arms production. They're definitely building something bigger."
"Project Valkyrie," Peggy said. "We've heard rumours of it before, but this must be it. And we have a lead; The Forge. If we can find that, we'll find answers."
"But first we have to get back home," Bucky pointed out. "We're still missing two team members."
"I'm sure they won't be long," Steve said. "They know our timescale."
So they waited. Stark examined the paperwork and Morita tinkered with one of the bikes. Bucky tried not to keep glancing at his wristwatch every two minutes. If Dugan and Jones didn't make it back in time, they'd be stranded out here. And Steve wouldn't leave them behind, which meant Bucky had to stay to watch Steve's back. Morita would insist on staying because Dugan still owed him five bucks from the last game of poker they'd played before shipping out to France, and Jacques would be keen to find something to blow up. Which meant Stark and Carter would be returning to London alone, and it was fifty-fifty on whether Carter stayed too.
A distant owl gave a lonely hoot, and Carter cleared her throat. "Steve, it's time. We can't wait any longer."
"I know." His jaw had a stubborn set to it. "I want you to take Stark and"—he tilted his head to one side, listening to something in the distance. Relief immediately flooded his face. "Thank God. They're here." A frown returned. "But I only hear one bike."
Oh God, we've lost someone. The thought ran through Bucky's mind before he could stop it. Dugan. Jones. Both good men. Both good friends. Which one would they be returning to London without?
"Waaaaahooooo!" came a cry as the bike drew nearer. Its headlamp lit up the road, and everyone had to squint to protect their vision.
"Sorry we're late," said the voice of Jones. "Technical issues. We had to double up."
The tightness around Bucky's heart melted away at the sight of the two men, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks, just in case God really was listening.
"Just glad you didn't miss your ride home," Steve said, clapping both men on the shoulder. "It would've been one hell of a walk."
"Walk now, debrief later," Carter instructed. "In fact, run now. I've had as much as I can stomach of Czechoslovakia, and our pilots won't wait forever."
"You heard the lady," said Steve. "Commandos, march out. Let's go home."
: - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - : - - - — — — - - - :
"Tell me what I'm looking at," said Danny.
"What does it look like, Sarge?" asked Corporal Lancing.
"I know what it looks like, but I can't believe you possibly have one, because what the hell are you gonna do with it?"
"Exactly what is was made for! You know there's high demand for it since movie nights became so popular."
Danny stared at the device. It looked to be in perfect condition, not that he was an expert on such things, and so far as he could tell, it ought to work. There was just one teensie problem.
"Ignoring for the moment the question of where you got it from," he said, "where do you expect to find the raw materials to make it work?"
"That's one of those whatchamacallems," said Private Salinger. "A 'conceptual problem'."
"No, it was a conceptual problem before you had the machine. Now it's an actual problem."
"We're sure an opportunity will present itself," said Private O'Connell.
Before he could get in another word, Lieutenant Grant strode over to their hiding place behind the potato patch, and the Stooges saluted immediately. Danny threw one up for appearances. In the few days since their confrontation with the General, Joe had taken the reins of the Syndicate and implemented drastic changes. Now, everybody in the Syndicate knew who ran it, except General Grant, who pretended he didn't, and anybody who wasn't in it was none the wiser.
Grant's eyes fell on the machine, then immediately slid to Danny's face, a question behind them. Instead of asking, however, he merely said, "At ease, men. Sergeant Wells, I need to speak with you for a moment."
The Stooges nearly sighed with relief as they picked up the machine and scurried away like three extremely furtive crabs. They'd accepted that Grant ran the Syndicate now, but after months or even years of not knowing who pulled the strings, it made them uncomfortable knowing exactly who was watching over them. They'd get used to it, sooner or later.
"I can explain about the popcorn machine," Danny said, ready to BS something on the spot. Grant had Forrest to handle all the official stuff, which left Danny to take care of the little things. The movie nights. The poker games. The chickens. It wasn't a bad deal, really.
"I don't care," Grant replied. He'd mellowed considerably over the past few days. "Make it work or make it go away. The less I know about it, the less I have to worry about it." Mellowed and got himself a whole new outlook on life. His nearly-nightly dates with Nancy had probably been a contributing factor to that. "I just heard from my father that we've got marching orders."
"Bound to happen sooner or later," Danny nodded, his mind already working on the task of how to transport the large number of chickens they'd accrued since setting up camp. Apparently, Italians really liked the chicken trade. "France?" he asked.
Grant shook his head. "The Krauts are in retreat. They're pulling back from Normandy, attempting to fortify Paris and Marseilles, but they've suffered significant losses, and the brass believe they'll withdraw back into Germany or Holland within the next three months, especially with the RAF continually hitting their supply chain. No, we're headed in the other direction. Time to give our Russian allies a hand."
His heart sank a little, but he said, "That's a relief."
"Oh?"
"I don't speak Russian."
Grant gave him one of those looks. "I'm not sure what that has to do with anything… but that's not why I wanted to speak with you. An opportunity has come up, and I wanted to give you first refusal."
"Opportunities, I like," he said. "What is it?"
"One of the men I worked with on the Lend Lease program has recently been diagnosed with dementia, and is being shipped back to the States to live out the rest of his life with his family."
"I'm sorry to hear that," he offered, because it sounded like the kind of consolatory thing one ought to say when one heard the news that a co-worker had lost his marbles.
"Thanks. Anyway, that's opened up a position on the program, which has been offered to me. I intend to turn it down, for obvious reasons, but I think you'd be perfect for the role. If you want it, I'll make sure you get it."
Danny wrinkled his nose. "Procurement and logistics? You couldn't pay me to do something so boring."
"The position is based in London."
His heart skipped a beat. "And by boring, I mean difficult. I've always wanted to master the legal challenges of international supply chain. When do I leave?"
"A resupply plane is expected within the next couple of days. When it returns to England, it'll take you and a handful of our worst casualties back."
A couple of days. A couple of days and he'd be in England. Not just England, but London. He'd finally get the chance to tell Captain America how stupid his hair was. And maybe try to salvage a friendship.
"Thank you," he said, putting as much genuine feeling into it as he could manage. "This opportunity means more to me than you could ever know."
"A lot of people around here will miss you," said Grant. "Including me. But I'm grateful for everything you've done for me, and for my father as well. A lesser man would've turned him in and taken that promotion. As much as I'll miss having your friendship and expertise, I've got a feeling that this is not where you're meant to be. You're wasted out here."
"True," he agreed. "I should definitely have a cushy desk to go with my cushy desk job. But what about you? Are you sure you can manage without me?"
"Believe it or not, The Rock will go on without you." Grant smiled and offered him a hand, which Danny shook with more enthusiasm than he thought himself capable. "Besides, I'll think of you every time I watch one of the Captain America movies, and I'm sure everyone else will keep themselves entertained for months with rumours of how you've gone back to report on the success of your mission to him."
For the first time in what felt like forever, Danny laughed.