Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm by G. T. Almasi

“Darwin and Rabbi, we’ve got five packages coming in, contents unknown.”
    Brando comms back, “Roger that.” The Rabbi doesn’t answer. Hopefully he’s already gone.
    I say, “Thanks, Greta. You’d better get out of here.”
    Without another word, Greta spins her bike around, stands on the pedals, and presses as hard as she can.
    I turn and hustle back to my partner. “Darwin,” I comm, “how we doin’?”
    â€œThe Rabbi’s people are mostly away. We’re packed up, but we have the element of surprise and I’ve got an idea.”
    â€œSurprise? The Krauts found
us
, remember.”
    â€œNot exactly,” he says. “The Germans think they’ve found a camp of lightly armed runaway slaves with no military training.”
    â€œRight, ‘cause that’s what they
have
found.”
    â€œThey don’t know about you.”
    â€œAhh, I see.” Goose bumps dance onto my arms. “You want me to give ’em the F.U.C.K.?”
    Brando recites a line from our orders. “‘You shall create a chaotic and confused situation wherever possible.’”
    Story of my life.
    â€œPlus,” he continues, “I think we can blame it on the Russkies. They’re the first people Germany blames for everything, anyway. I’ll ask my boss to falsify some comms reinforcing that tendency.”
    â€œSounds good,” I comm. “Let’s do it.”
    The German choppers are over our heads. They slow down to find a landing spot. Their rotors make the air thrum and the trees shimmy. Those helicopters are our main target. My challenge will be to wreck the machines and harm as few of the Wehrmacht troops as possible. The German press and public will eventually forgive anti-slave activists for destroying some pieces of war equipment. But if we kill any of these regular army dudes, it’ll be a very different story.
    There’s a natural clearing about a hundred yards north of where Brando has our gear stacked. One of the choppers circles the clearing to set up their approach. I dose a tall drink of Madrenaline and speed toward their intended landing zone.
    I get there as one of the choppers touches down. Airmobile troops bound out from both sides and boogie to the tree line. A second helicopter floats down next to the first. More troops pour out, some before the skids even touch the ground. Officers bellow commands to their men and lead them to cover.
    I approach the first helicopter from its rear, taking care to avoid the tail rotor. The second bird is to my left, so I cut right. I approach the right-side pilot’s door, rip it open, and punch the pilot square in his mouth. Then I flip open the buckle of his safety harness and drag him out by his head. I draw Li’l Bertha, climb into the aircraft, and riddle the control board in front of the pilots’ seats with .30-caliber Explosives. This bird ain’t goin’ nowhere.
    I jab my pistol at the remaining pilot and bark, “
Raus! Schnell mutterfinken!” Get out, motherfucker!
    I read “SCHMIDT” printed on the pilot’s coveralls while he frantically unbuckles his harness. Pilot Schmidt throws himself out the door and runs toward the second chopper.
    I chase Schmidt across the small clearing. The second bird’s engine whines up a full octave as Pilot Schmidt bounds on board. I hurl myself at the big side opening. The chopper takes off so fast the craft’s floor slaps up into my chest. My feet swing in the air for a moment until my toes find the landing skid. I push off and roll inside.
    Herr Schmidt has seen more than enough of me and cowers in terror by the other main door. Up front, the pilot on the right draws his sidearm. Li’l Bertha sights in. One of her .45-caliber slugs carries away Pilot Right’s pistol, pieces of his hand, and all of his moxie. The injured man screams while the mess at the end of his arm squirts