5th Column Comics: The Indigo Codex #1 (of 8)
German occupied Norway, 1942
The two SdKfZ2 ‘panzer cycles’ came to a stop at the top of the barren hill, the ground remaining uncovered despite the falling snow. Dismounting, the riders, three of whom were dressed in the uniform of the Wehrmacht’s Elite Alpine Battalion, stepped cautiously onto the uncovered hill top, their hands clutched around their rifles. The fourth man, dressed in the black uniform of the Waffen SS, looked at the men who had brought him to the hill-top, before bending down and running his hand through the soil.
“Get the shovels.”* He ordered, his voice as cold and unforgiving as the snow around him.
*Translated from German
**
German Camp just outside of El Alamein
Darkness in the desert make a hostile environment, take on an air of sinister intent, what with the drop in temperature to near freezing conditions, the singing of the sand whipped up by the wind and the emergence of things that wisely avoided the hot desert sun.
“Any activity?” A man wearing a uniform with sergeants bars asked, as he stood on the ad-hoc barricade that supported one of the big 88mm cannons, its barrel pointed squarely at the town of El Alamein.
“Nien.” The artillery spotter he was talking too replied, as he passed the sergeant his field glasses. “The sand rippled occasionally, but it appears to be nothing more sinister then the wind moving the surface grains.” He added, as the sergeant peered through the binoculars into the darkness. “Hardly worth phoning the field Marshall about at this late hour.” He added, as the sergeant handed him back the field glasses.
“Call me if you continue to see movement after the wind dies down.” The sergeant ordered, before stepping off the barrier, and back towards the massed Panzer Tanks and support vehicles. Walking past a fuel truck he stopped, as he spotted a pair of feet sticking out the other side. Cautiously, he walked round the front of the truck, and looked down to see the body of a dead engineer, his throat slashed open. Yelling at the top of his voice, the sergeant looked at the man again, and spotted a cord tucked into the dead-man’s boot. Releasing it, he thought nothing more about it, as the truck exploded, the fireball swallowing him and the nearest soldiers and equipment as fire washed over the camp. As the camp fell into disarray, one man kept his cool and stormed into the communications tent, to find a woman in an SS auxiliary unit hastily scribbling in a notebook.
“What is this Fraulein?” He asked, as he snatched the notebook from her, and flicked through the pages. “Radio codes and frequencies? Come with me!” He snarled, as he pulled the woman off her chair and dragged her out of the tent. “You Corporal,” he snapped at a soldier desperately trying to put out the burning fuel truck, “this traitor tried to copy radio codes down and send them to the British. Contact Herr Rommel and tell him to expect Captain Rosenberg at the main encampment within the hour.”
“Yes Herr Captain.” The Corporal gulped, as Rosenberg marched his captive up to a parked ‘Kubelwagen’ and pushed her into the back seat, before climbing in. Seconds later another soldier arrived, and climbed into the driver’s seat, before starting the engine, the sound lost in the chaos all around them. Pulling away, an explosion sounded behind them as the communication tent detonated in a burning corona bright enough to illuminate the entire camp. Coming to a halt, the driver rested his rifle against the front seat, slid out and opened the gate before jumping back in.
“High Command should be pleased with these.” Rosenberg stated, his voice changing from a rough German accent to one that hailed from the south coast of England, as he flicked through the notebook. “I trust you rigged all the artillery with explosives Williams?” He asked the driver, as more explosions sounded behind them.
“Oh yes I got them, not to mention the munition dump as well Karl.” Williams answered, as he turned the Kubelwagen towards El Alamein. “I imagine that all that commotion should attract some attention, say from the squadron of Mosquitos based in Cairo.”
“Well Victoria?” Karl asked, as he kept flicking through the notebook. “Can we expect the RAF to come screaming like banshees out of the clouds?”
“I’m afraid all I could get hold of was a few B17s from the United States Air-Force, I do hope they don’t make too much of a mess.” Victoria answered, as she and Karl shucked off their uniforms. “And I do hope those codes are enough, I didn’t have a lot of time when I was unobserved to write them down.”
“These codes will give our ground-forces an edge across the Mediterranean.” Karl sighed, “It’s a small win, but right now we need all the wins we can get.”
**
German occupied Norway, 1942
One of the shovels contacted with something metallic buried under the hill with a clunk, as the soldiers dug into the hillside. Delicately one of the soldiers bent over, and brushed the dirt off the top to reveal a dull foot long grey canister, its surface lined with tubes leading t o a central eight pointed dial.
“Herr Ruston is this what we are looking for?” He asked, as he handed the canister to the man in the SS uniform.
“Ja, this is the item the tablet Fraulein Mulholland deciphered mentioned.” Ruston stated, a degree of warmth coming to his voice. Twisting the dial, the group watched as the tubes flashed blue, and the canister reconfigured itself, the top opening like a flower to reveal seven petals supporting a black liquid ring arranged around a single spike. Twisting the dial, Ruston looked at the soldiers watching the canister with fascination, as each of the petals split open and the black liquid snaked out onto the hillside, before burning an image onto the bare hillside.
“It looks like a map Herr Ruston.” One of the soldiers commented, as the image continued to burn red against the grey soil. One spot glowed brightly, and Ruston smiled slightly, before throwing the canister onto the floor. “Radio the Reichminister, we have a location of the Ancient Aryan’s tomb, its off the coast of...” he stopped, and looked down at the capsule, as thick blue smoke erupted from the central spike, the gas rising up at him, his lungs burning as he took a gulp of air before holding his breath, only to have to exhale before the cloud dispersed.
“Herr Ruston are you okay?” One of the soldiers asked, as his comrades took a blanket off the back of one of the ‘panzer-cycles, and threw it over the canister.
“I am fine.” Ruston wheezed, his lungs still burning from inhaling the strange blue gas. “We have work to do, work that will bring about the birth of our thousand year Reich.”
Log in to comment