Read Online Delta Green: Denied to the Enemy by Dennis Detwiller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dennis Detwiller
Ads: Link
moon.
Bruning closed the file and opened his eyes. Beneath the wing of the plane, roads spread out like arteries bringing the cancer of the Reich to the defenseless towns of France. Men, tanks, guns, infecting everything like a disease, turning children into soldiers, metal into bullets. The great engines of the Reich converted flesh into prosperity, at the cost of lives. It was like some terrible machine that never should have been, sprung into existence by its own accord, finding nourishment in death. Around him, in him, Bruning could feel the pulse of that machine. Events too large for him to consider blotted out the world, and as he sat and tried to piece together his part in the charade he realized that soon he would be on that beach. Alone with his secrets, he would see those things as they shambled from the waves in the dark of the new moon. He could see himself there already, frozen with fear—he would stand by as Weber gave the world away to things older than mankind.
Bruning placed the file carefully in his briefcase, which was now bulging with various secret reports from Offenburg. The night before his departure he had stolen everything in the Karotechia files to which he had unquestioned access. How rapidly would those missing files be noticed? Sooner rather than later, he supposed. Within the month he would have to choose—a dash for England with what he had, or suicide. The British would never believe him, he knew, even if he made it past the channel defenses. No one sane would believe a story such as his. But no matter how outrageous it was, it was his story, and he had his part to play.
Bruning would not stand by and let evil take its course again, no matter the price he had to pay. Perhaps he would even live long enough to reminisce about the choices he should have made in the past. But right now, as the plane dipped a wing and prepared to land, the past was a luxury, and all Bruning could see was the darkened blanket of the future as it rolled over everything he had ever known.
CHAPTER 4 :
I am part of that part which once, when all began, was all there was
November 20, 1942: Cap de la Hague, France
The smell of the sea air cut into Bruning’s brain like a knife, instantly eliminating all excess thought with the terrible images the smell brought to his racing mind. Something primal and pure called out to him from inside, warning him away from the waves that crashed outside the kleigs on the light-bleached shore. Past the circles of white light in which only he and Weber stood, the beach was painted in the extremes of night; random liquid splotches of white or black, areas of grey, great blank gaps, places his eyes could not see. The beach was too much to take in all at once, but his eyes frantically tried to search every square inch of it in some defensive reflex. His body trembled and his hands shook. He looked on, dumb; frozen like a statue, while his soul shrieked something as deep-seated and intrinsic as the fear of death. He was on the beach, dear God. There was no escape. Above it all, the full moon stared down like a bloated, sickly reptilian eye, unblinking and cold in the frigid November air.
“One in the water!” A distant voice shouted hoarsely from one of the towers, and a cascade of clicks erupted behind him. It took Bruning a moment to realize the soldiers were cocking their weapons in preparation. For what? Perhaps just that—preparation. Silence drifted back in, and only the monotonous roll of the surf as it swept the shore could be heard. But then, subtly intertwined with the breaking waves, another sound. The splash of something walking from the water. Bruning strained his eyes to pick out the shadow of a form from the black beyond the lights, his ears following the indistinct noises of something as it moved out there, but no matter how hard he strained, nothing could be seen. The noise stopped, lost in the dull crash of the surf, disappearing in a
Bruning closed the file and opened his eyes. Beneath the wing of the plane, roads spread out like arteries bringing the cancer of the Reich to the defenseless towns of France. Men, tanks, guns, infecting everything like a disease, turning children into soldiers, metal into bullets. The great engines of the Reich converted flesh into prosperity, at the cost of lives. It was like some terrible machine that never should have been, sprung into existence by its own accord, finding nourishment in death. Around him, in him, Bruning could feel the pulse of that machine. Events too large for him to consider blotted out the world, and as he sat and tried to piece together his part in the charade he realized that soon he would be on that beach. Alone with his secrets, he would see those things as they shambled from the waves in the dark of the new moon. He could see himself there already, frozen with fear—he would stand by as Weber gave the world away to things older than mankind.
Bruning placed the file carefully in his briefcase, which was now bulging with various secret reports from Offenburg. The night before his departure he had stolen everything in the Karotechia files to which he had unquestioned access. How rapidly would those missing files be noticed? Sooner rather than later, he supposed. Within the month he would have to choose—a dash for England with what he had, or suicide. The British would never believe him, he knew, even if he made it past the channel defenses. No one sane would believe a story such as his. But no matter how outrageous it was, it was his story, and he had his part to play.
Bruning would not stand by and let evil take its course again, no matter the price he had to pay. Perhaps he would even live long enough to reminisce about the choices he should have made in the past. But right now, as the plane dipped a wing and prepared to land, the past was a luxury, and all Bruning could see was the darkened blanket of the future as it rolled over everything he had ever known.
CHAPTER 4 :
I am part of that part which once, when all began, was all there was
November 20, 1942: Cap de la Hague, France
The smell of the sea air cut into Bruning’s brain like a knife, instantly eliminating all excess thought with the terrible images the smell brought to his racing mind. Something primal and pure called out to him from inside, warning him away from the waves that crashed outside the kleigs on the light-bleached shore. Past the circles of white light in which only he and Weber stood, the beach was painted in the extremes of night; random liquid splotches of white or black, areas of grey, great blank gaps, places his eyes could not see. The beach was too much to take in all at once, but his eyes frantically tried to search every square inch of it in some defensive reflex. His body trembled and his hands shook. He looked on, dumb; frozen like a statue, while his soul shrieked something as deep-seated and intrinsic as the fear of death. He was on the beach, dear God. There was no escape. Above it all, the full moon stared down like a bloated, sickly reptilian eye, unblinking and cold in the frigid November air.
“One in the water!” A distant voice shouted hoarsely from one of the towers, and a cascade of clicks erupted behind him. It took Bruning a moment to realize the soldiers were cocking their weapons in preparation. For what? Perhaps just that—preparation. Silence drifted back in, and only the monotonous roll of the surf as it swept the shore could be heard. But then, subtly intertwined with the breaking waves, another sound. The splash of something walking from the water. Bruning strained his eyes to pick out the shadow of a form from the black beyond the lights, his ears following the indistinct noises of something as it moved out there, but no matter how hard he strained, nothing could be seen. The noise stopped, lost in the dull crash of the surf, disappearing in a
Similar Books
