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On His Majesty's Secret Service

Written by Kerryn Offord

There were three gliders in the sky. Each was being towed by a Ziermann Flugzeugwerke Mayfly four-engine heavy transport aircraft. The lead glider was crammed full of soldiers sitting with their backs to the fuselage. At the front, right beside the door to the cockpit sat Commander Erik Zeetrell. His long curly blond hair framed his unpainted face. He made one final check on his pistol and holstered it before he turned to look down the length of the glider. In his eyes you could see his determination to complete his mission no matter what.

"Crash positions."

The shout from the cockpit broke the silence. Erik looped his right arm through a restraint attached to the bulkhead separating him from the cockpit and linked his left arm with the right arm of the soldier beside him and locked his hands together. Then he lifted his feet a few inches off the floor. A quick glance showed that all the soldiers had linked their arms with the men either side of them and lifted their feet as well..

The glider hit the ground with an enormous thump and there was loud screeching from the landing skids as they protested sliding on the rough ground. Erik felt as if he was being squeezed to death when the men seated on the bench seat beside him were thrown against him, and then his arms were almost jerked out of their sockets when the glider spun ninety degrees before finally coming to a halt.

Erik was one of the last men out. He paused briefly at the starboard-side door and looked out. Barely fifty feet away he could see the main tower of the fortress' keep. With his SMG held ready he jumped to the ground and hurried after the soldiers of the Stralsund Regiment's "Black Company" making for the main entry to the keep.

A man in front of him fell to the ground and lay motionless. Erik paused long enough to check that he was dead before he hurried over to the dubious cover of the keep's wall. The sappers blew in the portcullis and men charged through the opening and along the narrow passage to the inner courtyard.

In the inner courtyard Erik took cover while men of the Black Company sprayed a window with gunfire until a man fell through the window to land at their feet.

Erik turned to look at the massive tower they'd just passed under. He gestured to the men beside him and they lifted him onto the narrow timber walkway that led to the only door into the tower. He tried the door but it was locked. A sapper below him threw up a prepared explosive and Erik pressed it against the door before lighting the fuse and standing clear.

KA-BOOM!

Erik didn't wait for the smoke to settle. He was through the shattered door in a flash, his SMG ready to deal death to anybody who got in his way.

He'd barely started up the first flight of stairs before two guards appeared on a landing above him and raised their rifles to their shoulders. Erik fired from the hip, cutting them down. He didn't spare them a glance as he continued running.

He didn't slow down until he was confronted by a heavy door on the top level. With his back against the stone wall he reached out with his left hand and opened the door.

Gunshots from inside the room peppered the door. At the first pause in the gunfire, Erik threw in a concussion grenade and ducked back behind the wall.

Ka-Boom!

The blast slammed the door against the frame and Erik had to kick it open before entering the room. He was confronted by two men stumbling around with their hands over their ears. He cut them down with a burst from his SMG before heading for the door at the end of the room.

He kicked the door open to reveal Lord Vadmel and the princess.

Lord Vadmel pulled the princess close to him. "We meet at last, Commander Zeetrell. Drop your gun or the princess dies." He let Erik see the small pistol held against the princess' head.

Erik dropped his SMG.

"Very good, Commander. Now kick it toward me.'

Erik did as he said.

Lord Vadmel threw the princess across the room and reached for the SMG. He started to bring it to bear on Erik, but Erik was already moving. He drew his pistol as he threw himself to one side and fired once before he hit the floor.

Erik rolled quickly to his feet. He kept his pistol aimed at Lord Vadmel as he approached the body. A nudge of his foot rolled the villain over. He'd been shot right through the middle of his forehead.

Satisfied, Erik turned to the object of this rescue mission. The princess was slumped against the wall where she'd been thrown. Erik gently picked her up and carried her out of the room.

****

The fortress was a hive of activity with sailors and black clad soldiers leading prisoners away and medics tended to the wounded. In the waters below the fortress a warship lay at anchor with numerous motorized landing boats ferrying men and equipment to and from the shore. Erik felt a soft hand on his shoulder. He turned and stared down at the princess while she put her arms around his neck. Erik dipped his mouth toward hers . . .

 

Magdeburg, Late November 1635

 

Colonel Axel Gustafsson Lillie felt a soft hand squeeze his and knew his wife was pleased. He'd invested heavily in "On His Majesty's Secret Service" and he was nervous about how the movie would be received.

The lights started to come on and the audience finally started to react. There was loud applause when the actors and production staff mounted the stage, which turned into a deafening roar when the actors who played Erik Zeetrell and the princess stepped onto the stage.

Axel brought Christina's hand to his mouth and gently kissed her fingers. "Shall we join them?"

Christina shook her head. "Let them enjoy the fruits of their labor while we escape."

Axel was agreeable. He didn't need the exposure, and standing around for hours on his artificial leg didn't appeal. Besides, Christina was pregnant with their third child and she shouldn't stand around too long herself. He held up a hand so his bodyguard, Sergeant Jon Joakimsson, could help him to his feet before both of them helped Christina out of her chair and they made their way out of the opera house. Axel and Christina walked arm in arm, with Sergeant Jon Joakimsson, of the village of Rambo in Gothenland, Sweden, walking a couple of steps behind.

Christina called over her shoulder. "You looked good in your scenes, Jon."

Jon smiled. "Thank you, my lady.'

"But why did they call you Sergeant Rambo in the movie?"

Axel could see that Jon wasn't going to explain, so he did. "It's an up-timer thing. The movie's producer was checking the regiment's roll for possible extras and he came across Jon's name. He's recorded as Sergeant Jon Joakimsson Rambo and the producer felt it was a great joke having John J Rambo in the movie."

"But what's so funny about Jon's name?" Christina asked.

"No need to take offence on my behalf, my lady. Sergeant John J. Rambo is another up-time movie hero, rather like James Bond."

"But without the class," Axel muttered loud enough for Jon and Christina to hear.

She jabbed him with an elbow and he gathered her closer, not entirely in self-defense. They walked the rest of the short distance to the Magdeburg Towers apartment block in friendly silence.

"How much of what we saw is make-believe?" Christina asked while they waited for the elevator.

"Most of it," Jon muttered.

"Ignore Jon. He's still deeply offended by some of the things the movie people insisted on doing for dramatic effect."

"Oh? Like what?" Christina asked.

"Commander Zeetrell going in without a helmet or face camouflage . . ." Jon said.

"Jabe McDougal explained that. The audience needs to be able to easily identify the hero at all times," Axel said.

". . . the explosions were nothing like the real thing. Men don't fall out of high windows like that, and as for the scene where Commander Zeetrell shoots the villain . . ." Jon left his words hanging.

"Artistic license," Axel said.

Jon snorted. "That's not what you said when Gino Bianchi first described what he wanted to do."

"What was wrong with that scene?" Christina asked. "I thought it was so romantic the way the hero dropped his rifle when the villain threatened the princess."

Axel exchanged a knowing look with Jon and both men shook their heads. "It was romantic rubbish."

Christina sniffed. "Well, what would you have done? Let the man kill the princess?"

"The princess is only any good as a hostage while she lives," Axel said.

"So if someone held a gun to my head and told you to put down your gun . . ."

"I'd kill the . . ." Axel throttled back on his language. Just the thought of that scenario scared him.

"But he has a gun against my head."

Axel reached out and hugged his wife. "Unless he can easily escape, at some point the villain will realize he has to either shoot me or surrender."

"Shoot you! That's horrible. And then he'd get away, wouldn't he?"

Axel nodded. "That's why you don't surrender your weapon to a hostage taker."

"So what would you do?" Christina asked.

"Wait him out," Axel said.

"And any female in that position would probably faint anyway," Jon said.

Christina glared at Jon. "I wouldn't faint."

"Maybe you could fake it, love, because it leaves the villain vulnerable," Axel explained.

"Why?" Christina asked. Then she smiled. "Oh! The villain would have to catch me."

"Or let you fall. Either way, as soon as he stops holding a gun to your head, he's dead."

"Well, I don't expect I'll ever find my self in that kind of situation," Christina said.

 

Doberan, Mecklenburg

 

Klaus von Bülow, of the now almost extinct Doberan branch of the mighty von Bülows, stood on the low rise and looked out to sea. He'd often shared the view with first his children and more recently, his granddaughter, but no more.

He turned to stare at the grave markers one last time. There was his wife's. Beside her lay his eldest son and daughter-in-law. Then there were the graves of his grandchildren. Joachim Vollrad, the baby and heir, and three year old Anna Sophie.

Klaus heard someone walk up beside him. "Is it done?" he asked without turning.

"Please reconsider, Your Excellency," Georg Mevius pleaded. "Not everyone in the village was responsible. Show some mercy for the innocent."

Klaus turned and glared at his man of business. "Mercy? Like they showed Anna Sophie? You saw what they did to her body? What kind of animals would do that to a sweet innocent three year old? What of Rutgers, has he returned?"

Georg nodded. "He's back aboard the Anna Sophie."

Klaus pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. There were three hours to go before sunset. "Then let us depart this blighted place."

Back on his private yacht Klaus walked over to the man slowly shedding his peasant costume. "All is in place?"

Johannes Rutgers cleaned the mud off his face before nodding. "And I bring news of Christoph Brockmann. He and some of his men will be in Magdeburg for the fourth anniversary celebrations of the forming of the Committees of Correspondence."

Klaus snarled and spat over the side at the mention of the man he held responsible for the death of his family and the destruction of his estate. "Your information is good?"

"The village CoC representative spoke openly of the event and how Christoph will be there with his CoC fighters," Johannes said.

"When are these celebrations?"

"The second week in October."

"After we have dealt with the murderers of Doberan, we will head for Magdeburg to deal with Christoph Brockmann and his men. For now I wish to rest. See that I am woken before midnight."

****

"Who is Christoph Brockmann?" Georg asked.

"The man Herr von Bülow holds responsible for all that has befallen him, especially his granddaughter's death. Without Christoph and his CoC fighters we could have held the peasants off long enough to safely evacuate everybody. Instead . . ." Johannes gestured toward the burnt-out house and estate buildings.

 

Midnight

 

Klaus stood on the deck of the Anna Sophie staring at the distant land where the village of Doberan slept. He held up his pocket-watch and tried to read the time in the poor light. "Rutgers, it is past midnight and nothing has happened."

Johannes Rutgers rushed over to his employer. "The man is reliable, My Lord. Maybe the timer is slow."

"If the charge doesn't go off I'll have him dragged behind the . . ."

Suddenly the night sky was lit up. Seconds later there was an almighty KAA-BOOM! Klaus smiled and patted the gunwale of the Anna Sophie. He mumbled, almost to himself, "Rest easier now, little one. The people who hurt you have started to pay."

"What caused so big an explosion?" Georg asked.

"We placed a wagon loaded with gunpowder behind the millhouse," Johannes answered.

 

Magdeburg, the first week of October

 

Jon Joakimsson woke when he felt the prostitute he'd hired for the evening move. He watched her disappear through a door without touching his processions. Well, he thought, he had been told the establishment was "safe." Less than a minute after the prostitute's departure a servant entered with a steaming jug and a lit lamp. She stood watching Jon until he showed signs of getting out of bed. Jon had no difficulty understanding her silent message. His time was up. Please wash and dress and leave so they could prepare the room for the next client. Jon rolled out of the warm bed and headed for the jug of hot water on the dresser for a quick wash before dressing.

He pulled on the dark blue, almost black, combat trousers, shirt, and combat jacket that had been a perk of appearing in the movie before pulling on his new boots. They hadn't been provided as a perk, but the money he'd earned had paid for them. They were handmade Calagna and Bauer combat boots with the new rubber soles, and they'd cost a small fortune, but Jon felt they were worth every thaler.

He stood in front of the mirror and patted his pockets. All he felt was a key and a piece of paper. For a moment he panicked, but then he remembered that the brothel had insisted that all weapons and money should be lodged in a safe-keeping box and left at reception. He fully accepted the reasoning about the weapons, but he hadn't been happy about leaving his purse. If the establishment hadn't come highly recommended he'd have left then and there. He pulled on a woolen hat and put on his overcoat before leaving the room.

Downstairs a woman was manning reception. She put a heavy box on the counter and waited for Jon to open the lock with the key he'd been given. "Could I see your receipt, please."

Jon handed over the receipt he'd received when he emptied his pockets of weapons and valuables and while the receptionist ticked off the items he pulled out his knives and put them into the sheaves on his belt. Then he picked up the pistol. He checked it was empty and checked the two magazines that he'd put in the box. Happy that they were as they should be he inserted one magazine and cocked the action. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and concentrated on the receptionist. She had a hand under the counter. He looked from her face to the pistol in his hand. He smiled as he slid the pistol into its holster. "What are you pointing at me?" he asked conversationally.

"Short-barrel scatter gun loaded with two ounces of birdshot," she answered in the same tone.

"Messy?" Jon asked.

"Messy enough." She gestured with her head toward the wall behind him.

Jon walked over to the wall and felt the pockmarked surface of the wood. "You have to replace this often?" he asked, pointing to the wall.

"Not lately. Word gets around. It's been six months since we last had any trouble. Now, if you'd like to check the contents of your purse and sign that it matches what you had?"

Jon counted his money and signed off on the receipt.

"Thank you. I hope you had a pleasant evening."

"Very pleasant, thank you." Jon gave the woman a casual salute and walked toward the door. He paused before leaving to button up his coat and tighten the belt, and to close his eyes to give them a chance to adapt to the night waiting outside.

Outside the alleyway was poorly illuminated. The only real sources of light were the red shaded gaslights above the doors of the more reputable brothels, as this late at night, or more correctly, this early in the morning, most of the street lighting was shut down. Convinced that at any moment someone was going to leap out of the shadows (this was the big bad city after all) Jon worked his way from shadow to shadow toward Magdeburg Towers.

Ten minutes into his journey a door opened just ahead of him and in the flash of light Jon thought he recognized someone. The face was definitely familiar, and with unpleasant connections, but he couldn't place it. He waited until the man was a good distance down the street before approaching the address he'd been visiting. He committed the street number to memory and then set out in pursuit of the man he thought he recognized.

At the first intersection he took time to note the street's name. Five minutes later the man he was following disappeared into a boarding house. Jon stared at the closed door for a while, but he still couldn't place the face. With the man's name still escaping him, Jon scanned the skyline for the silhouettes of Magdeburg Towers and the soon-to-be completed Karickhoff's Hotel. They were easily the tallest structures in the Neustadt and he found them easily. With the buildings to guide him, he slowly made his way home.

 

Second Week in October

 

Christoph Brockmann walked into the Magdeburg Freedom Arches with his arm linked through his wife's. He was met by a harried looking employee of the restaurant. "Christoph Brockmann, Brockmann party," he informed the young man.

"Your guests are waiting for you, Herr Brockmann. If you and your good wife would like to follow me." The man set off up a flight of stairs.

Christoph glanced down at his wife and they exchanged smiles. This wasn't the normal level of service one expected at the Freedom Arches, but tonight was likely to be very busy. They hurried to catch up.

They were guided into a sitting room where several of their guests were waiting. "Sorry we're late, but the babysitter delayed us," Christoph apologized to his second in command, who had taken over the duties of host in his absence.

"At least you're here at last and we can start eating," Daniel Hardenack said.

Five minutes later Christoph and his guests were seated around the table with waiting staff putting out food. He waited until they left before starting the round of toasts. Eventually the round reached his wife.

"To the good ladies of the first Committee of Correspondence," Anna proposed.

Christoph blinked. He glanced at his wife to check that she was seriously proposing a toast to a pack of prostitutes. Her clear eyes twinkled at him. Yes, they said, she was serious. He shrugged and raised his glass. "To the good ladies of the first Committee of . . ."

KAAAAAAAA-BOOOOOOOM!

****

Across town, in the penthouse of Magdeburg Towers, the windows rattled from the blast and Axel Lillie spilled part of his drink. While he mopped up the spill, he looked across the table to his host.

Ron Chapman shook his head. "That wasn't normal." He put down his knife and fork, pushed his chair back and stood. "I'm just going out on the deck to have a look."

"I'll join you."

Ron picked up a pair of binoculars before they walked out onto the penthouse patio. From that vantage point, seven stories above the ground, Axel had a clear view south over the Altstadt of Magdeburg. The probable site of the explosion was easy to see with flames billowing into the sky.

"It looks like the fire is near the Freedom Arches," Ron reported.

Axel squinted while he tried to focus on the distant scene. He felt something being pushed at his hand. Ron's young wife had brought out a second pair of binoculars. He thanked her and raised them to his eyes. Immediately the scene leapt closer. "Where is the Freedom Arches?'

"It should be three in from the corner, but . . ." Ron lapsed into silence.

Axel stared at the horror before him. Most of the commercial block appeared to be burning. Even buildings across the road from the Freedom Arches were on fire. "What could have caused the explosion?"

"It could be a gas explosion," Ron suggested.

"Is there anything we can do?" Axel asked.

"No," Ron said.

Axel lowered his binoculars. Ron had his arms wrapped around his wife, Christine. Axel became aware of an arm around his waist and he reached out to hold his Christina. Together they stood watching the flames, their dinner forgotten.

****

Jon Joakimsson stepped out the door of the specialty restaurant "The American Kitchen" still licking his lips. He turned to speak to his dining companion, Nils Persson, an old army buddy.

KAAAAAAAA-BOOOOOOOM!

Jon felt rather than heard the blast, it was so powerful. A quick glance around showed a red glow in the night sky. He and Nils stared at each other for a moment before running off in the direction of all the commotion.

Jon almost lost the very good dinner he'd just finished when he first saw the scene of the blast. Where once there had been buildings there was now just rubble being consumed by fire. Jon sniffed the air. "What caused the explosion?" he asked.

Nils Persson shrugged. "No idea. It could be the gas, or maybe something ignited the flour in the restaurant."

Jon sniffed again. He shook his head. "I don't think it was flour. It doesn't smell right."

"Then it must have been the gas. Come on, there are people here who need our help."

 

Next day

 

Axel stared at the photographs of the burnt-out remains of the block of the city and the aerial photos taken before and after the fire. He read the column beside it and could only nod in agreement at its conclusions. He glanced over to Jon and Ron, who were looking at their own papers. "This paper says that an unnamed up-time expert who has analyzed their photos believes that there is clear evidence of a massive explosion centered in the cellar near the rear of the Freedom Arches, and that the location of the center of the blast is inconsistent with a gas explosion. When pressed for further information, the up-timer declined to answer."

"That'll probably be Carl they're talking about. I wonder what he's not saying," Ron said.

"Who's Carl?" Axel asked.

"Carl Schockley. He's with Kelly Construction, and back up-time he had something to do with explosives in the army. If he says it wasn't a gas explosion then I believe him."

"Bornholm! That's it," Jon suddenly shouted.

"What's it?" Axel asked.

"The other night I saw a familiar face, but I couldn't place it until Herr Chapman mentioned explosives. Now I can . . . but what is Mad Mads doing in Magdeburg?"

"Who?" Ron asked.

"Mads Bendtsen, sometimes known as 'The Mad Bomber,'" Axel answered. "We ran into some of his handiwork in Bornholm last year." He turned to Jon. "Do you think he might have something to do with the destruction of the Freedom Arches?"

"He knows enough to do it, but who hates the Freedom Arches enough to pay him to destroy the restaurant?" Jon asked.

The men stared at each other. None of them had an answer to that question.

"The only way to find out what Mads is doing in Magdeburg is to ask him." Axel glanced over to Jon. "Do you know where he lives?"

Jon nodded. "I followed him to a boarding house while I was wondering who he was."

"Hey, guys. This is really a problem for the authorities. Why don't we wander over to the Rathus and talk to Otto Gericke?" Ron asked.

"You're on first name terms with the Bürgermeister?" Axel asked.

"What can I say? Rebuilding Magdeburg needs a lot of cement, and we make a lot of cement at Magdeburg Concrete. Otto's also in charge of rebuilding the city and he's been one of our best customers."

"That's nice to know," Axel said, "but we know Mads. He's more likely to provide answers if we ask, isn't that right, Jon?"

Jon flexed his fingers. "Yes."

"Just a minute Axel. They don't approve of using torture to gain information in Magdeburg anymore," Ron said.

"Don't worry. Jon won't leave a mark."

"Well, be careful. This guy might be dangerous."

"He's quite harmless, Ron," Axel said.

"I'd hardly call someone who might just have killed a couple of hundred people harmless."

Axel smiled. "Your Christine could probably beat him in a fight."

****

Jon squinted through the keyhole of the door into Mads' room. Across the room he could see Mads concentrating on something laid out on the bed.

"Well?"

Jon scowled at Axel for the interruption. "He's sitting on the bed doing something, and he's left the key in the lock."

"Can you open the door without alerting him?"

Jon reached under his coat for his tools and got to work. There was a slight noise when the key dropped onto the piece of parchment he'd slid under the door, but Mads didn't seem to notice. Jon smiled. He'd been counting on all the explosions Mads loved so much damaging his hearing. It seemed that they had.

He pulled the parchment back and triumphantly held up the key. "Like taking candy from a baby."

Axel sighed audibly. "Just get on with it," he whispered.

Jon quietly unlocked the door and pushed it open. He and Axel were able to sneak in without Mads noticing. Jon shut the door quietly and walked over to Mads, his rubber soled boots barely making a sound. He reached out and laid his hand firmly on Mads' shoulder. "Fancy meeting you here."

Mads Bendtsen jerked violently under Jon's hand. He turned to see who was holding onto him. "Who the . . ."

"Hello, Mads," Axel said.

"How did you get into my room?" Mads demanded. "I must insist that you leave immediately."

Jon noticed something had floated onto the floor. Still gripping Mads' shoulder he bent down to pick it up."

"That's mine, give it to me," Mads cried out.

Jon held Mads at arm’s length while he examined his find. It was a Johnnie, one of the USE twenty-dollar bills. The last time he'd come across Johnnies in the hands of dubious people—and people didn't get much more dubious than Mads—they'd turned out to be forgeries. He passed the bill to Axel who, after a brief moment of surprise, pulled out a jeweler's glass and examined it closely.

"I do hope you weren't intending using any of these, Mads," Axel said.

"Why not? They accept paper dollars here in Magdeburg, you know."

"True, but they don't usually accept forgeries."

Mads stared at Axel in disbelief. He snatched the Johnnie back and the jeweler's glass Axel held out to him. "How can you tell?" he demanded.

Axel pulled out his wallet and extracted a Johnnie. He pointed to the fine work around the portrait. "Compare this area. The fine detail on your bill isn't as clear."

Mads looked at the bill in Axel's hand, then the one in his hand, his face paled and he dropped that bill to one side and turned to the bills he had spread out on his bed. He hastily grabbed one and looked at it under the glass. After a quick examination he tossed it to one side and picked up another.

Jon watched the panic develop as Mads worked through the bills on his bed. "Where did you get those bills, Mads?"

"He paid me with worthless paper. What am I going to do? They'll kill me if I can't pay them." Mads slid onto the floor and buried his head in his hands.

Jon didn't have to ask who Mads was talking about. He already knew. Nils had recognized the address he'd seen Mads leaving. It was one of the worst gaming hells in Magdeburg. He picked Mads up and placed him gently on the bed and placed a chair so Axel could sit facing him.

Axel smiled sympathetically at Mads. "Maybe we can work a deal. How much do you owe?"

"Twenty thousand dollars!" Mads sounded desperate.

"Two hundred thaler? We can afford that, can't we Jon?"

Jon sent Axel a pretend glare before returning to stare straight into Mads' eyes. "Why send good money after bad? I'm ...