Read Online The Folks at Fifty-Eight by Michael Patrick Clark - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Patrick Clark
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that field, it would offer the enemy a similar advantage. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.
As Hammond searched for signs of further Soviet troop movement, he thought back to the last time he’d undertaken a rescue mission on mainland Europe. His mud-spattered face smiled grimly as he compared the two missions and found nothing in common between them.
The previous rescue effort had been that hastily-organized dash to Rouen, and he’d been in uniform: a night-time assault with a team of professionals alongside, and surprise in his favour. In Rouen the main German army had been miles away, up on the Pas de Calais, peering nervously into the mist of the English Channel.
In Rouen, he’d had the assault and exit planned, the French Resistance to spirit them cross-country and a British Royal Navy submarine waiting offshore to ferry them home. He’d also had a fallback plan, which would not have been good news for Davis Carpenter, but would probably have given Hammond’s team a chance to escape with their lives.
Carpenter’s rescue from Rouen had been conventional combat, subject to the rules of war and the Geneva Convention. Magdeburg was anything but that.
In Magdeburg he was a rogue agent, working unofficially and alone. Not only that, but he’d killed three Soviet officials. He had no fallback position, no rules of engagement, no Geneva Convention, or even any official acknowledgement of his existence. In Magdeburg he was deniable, and they would deny.
Which all led him to one inescapable question: why the hell had he agreed to do it?
He considered the question, and compared the two individuals who owed him their lives.
The girl who crouched alongside him was a beautiful young German, innocent and helpless and easy on the eye, but in reality little more than a child.
In stark contrast, Davis Carpenter was an overweight bureaucrat, who had taken a stupid risk without consideration for others. A desk-bound strategist, who happily sent others on missions that all too often resulted in their deaths, without any empathy for the courage needed or sympathy for loved-ones left behind. He was a man for the bigger picture and the larger stage, the end and not the means; the greater good rather than the individual tragedy.
He thought back to that afternoon, when Carpenter had arrived out of the blue and explained the deal. He had jumped at it. A State Department appointment, in exchange for ‘another minor bit of business in Europe’; there was no decision to make. Carpenter said it was a long-overdue reward for Hammond saving his life in Rouen. Hammond couldn’t believe his luck.
He nodded a furious agreement and signed on the dotted line, then shook Carpenter by the hand and thanked him for remembering. He had been so desperate for a chance to join the State Department and escape the drudgery of that insurance company, he would have agreed to anything. At the time he’d considered rescuing and wet-nursing a good-looking young woman a small price to pay.
Three days after that he had set out for Europe, in good humour. They sneaked him onto a prototype Stratofreighter, ostensibly running long-range tests out of Andrews Field. The tests went well. The following day the plane touched down at Wiesbaden. From there he made his contacts in Frankfurt without problem or incident. They in turn contacted their people to the east of the country, and arranged his overland transport to Magdeburg. Everything, it seemed, was going according to plan.
But then he reached Magdeburg and the price suddenly soared, because in the early hours of the morning, on the day he arrived, the Soviet authorities discovered Catherine Schmidt hiding in an attic. They took her into custody and questioned her at length about the gruesome murders of three Red Army officers. She shook her pretty head and claimed she knew nothing about the killings. Stanislav Paslov, the head of the Soviet MGB in southern Germany, drove over from Leipzig specifically
As Hammond searched for signs of further Soviet troop movement, he thought back to the last time he’d undertaken a rescue mission on mainland Europe. His mud-spattered face smiled grimly as he compared the two missions and found nothing in common between them.
The previous rescue effort had been that hastily-organized dash to Rouen, and he’d been in uniform: a night-time assault with a team of professionals alongside, and surprise in his favour. In Rouen the main German army had been miles away, up on the Pas de Calais, peering nervously into the mist of the English Channel.
In Rouen, he’d had the assault and exit planned, the French Resistance to spirit them cross-country and a British Royal Navy submarine waiting offshore to ferry them home. He’d also had a fallback plan, which would not have been good news for Davis Carpenter, but would probably have given Hammond’s team a chance to escape with their lives.
Carpenter’s rescue from Rouen had been conventional combat, subject to the rules of war and the Geneva Convention. Magdeburg was anything but that.
In Magdeburg he was a rogue agent, working unofficially and alone. Not only that, but he’d killed three Soviet officials. He had no fallback position, no rules of engagement, no Geneva Convention, or even any official acknowledgement of his existence. In Magdeburg he was deniable, and they would deny.
Which all led him to one inescapable question: why the hell had he agreed to do it?
He considered the question, and compared the two individuals who owed him their lives.
The girl who crouched alongside him was a beautiful young German, innocent and helpless and easy on the eye, but in reality little more than a child.
In stark contrast, Davis Carpenter was an overweight bureaucrat, who had taken a stupid risk without consideration for others. A desk-bound strategist, who happily sent others on missions that all too often resulted in their deaths, without any empathy for the courage needed or sympathy for loved-ones left behind. He was a man for the bigger picture and the larger stage, the end and not the means; the greater good rather than the individual tragedy.
He thought back to that afternoon, when Carpenter had arrived out of the blue and explained the deal. He had jumped at it. A State Department appointment, in exchange for ‘another minor bit of business in Europe’; there was no decision to make. Carpenter said it was a long-overdue reward for Hammond saving his life in Rouen. Hammond couldn’t believe his luck.
He nodded a furious agreement and signed on the dotted line, then shook Carpenter by the hand and thanked him for remembering. He had been so desperate for a chance to join the State Department and escape the drudgery of that insurance company, he would have agreed to anything. At the time he’d considered rescuing and wet-nursing a good-looking young woman a small price to pay.
Three days after that he had set out for Europe, in good humour. They sneaked him onto a prototype Stratofreighter, ostensibly running long-range tests out of Andrews Field. The tests went well. The following day the plane touched down at Wiesbaden. From there he made his contacts in Frankfurt without problem or incident. They in turn contacted their people to the east of the country, and arranged his overland transport to Magdeburg. Everything, it seemed, was going according to plan.
But then he reached Magdeburg and the price suddenly soared, because in the early hours of the morning, on the day he arrived, the Soviet authorities discovered Catherine Schmidt hiding in an attic. They took her into custody and questioned her at length about the gruesome murders of three Red Army officers. She shook her pretty head and claimed she knew nothing about the killings. Stanislav Paslov, the head of the Soviet MGB in southern Germany, drove over from Leipzig specifically
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