Silence of Ash, page 1
Silence of Ash
Copyright © 2021 All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Thank you for purchasing this Great Wave Ink Publishing eBook.
Contents
Also by Adrian J Smith
About Silence of Ash
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Silence isn’t empty, it’s full of answers.
For F. Liontakis, who encouraged me to write.
Also by Adrian J Smith
EXTINCTION NZ SERIES:
THE RULE OF THREE
THE FOURTH PHASE
THE FIVE PILLARS
NAMELESS SERIES:
WHISPERS OF ASH
SHADOWS OF ASH
MASKS OF ASH
SILENCE OF ASH
Acknowledgements
This series wouldn’t be possible without the following wonderful people:
Lisa Omstead, Nathan Yokoyama, Nicholas Sansbury Smith, Karin De Vries, Daniel Arenson, Frances Liontakis, Sam Sisavath, Jacob Toye and Lee Murray.
I’m sure there are some that I’m missing. People that I pestered about life in the Armed Forces. I thank you all.
The friendly people of Japan.
The team at Deranged Doctor Design.
My family for encouraging me along the way.
Editors: Laurel C Kriegler and Nikki Crutchley.
About Silence of Ash
Silence is deafening…
Offenheim is dead, The Eyrie a crumbling ruin. LK3, Munroe, and The Nameless have had their victory, but it has come at a cost. Director Lisa Omstead, Peter Booth, Brock, and Kamal were killed in action. Ryan and Cal Connors are missing. One month on, as the dust settles, those who survived are left to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives. Sofia Ortiz must put aside her own grief to counsel Zanzi and form a new team – Arclight.
When damning new intelligence surfaces, Munroe orders Arclight on a recon mission to Hong Kong. An operation that could reveal the location of Zanzi’s missing parents.
Even though Zanzi is reluctant, she is determined to show the same courage her father, Ryan, showed. Like him, she fights for the many. Like him, she fights for humanity.
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Prologue
Stalag 23, Western Germany
December, 1944
The men in Hut 5 were running low on timber to stoke the fire. Most of it had been used over the last year as support structure in the construction of escape tunnels. Getting out of this hellhole was deemed more important than fighting off the cold. Getting out meant going home.
Robert Prendergast shivered in his bunk as the cold arctic winds blew through the flimsy cladding, wishing he had argued against the decision. The freezing winds seeped through the thin blankets he tugged tighter around his body, and into his bones. Some of the men had saved months of old newspapers, torn pages from books, or collected the brown paper from the Red Cross parcels. These were all prized for insulation, and Robert, as chief engineer, was lucky enough to have some. Not that it did much good, but it did lessen the discomfort. He drifted in and out of sleep, half listening for the sound of the siren. Five men from Hut 7 had gone under the fence tonight. Five brave men.
The Germans had thwarted every escape attempt made so far. Sometimes they found the tunnels when the sappers were at work. Other times, hours after they had run through the thick pine forests and into Germany. If the prisoners were lucky, they were confined to their barracks on their return and given little or no rations. If the Stalag guards were in a particularly savage mood, which was often, prisoners from the offending hut were rounded up, tortured, and eventually hung or shot in the yard for everyone to see.
Morning arrived bright and crisp, and still no siren. Blue skies with a fresh blanket of snow greeted Robert as he stood on the stoop and investigated the woods fifty meters beyond the fence. He had argued endlessly with the escape committee about the direction of their tunnels. He wanted to dig a longer one in the opposite direction, right under the Kommandant’s office, under the front gate, and bring it out in the motor pool workshop on the other side of the fence. Insane, but weren’t all great ideas?
Despite the silence, his heart pounded in his chest, his fingertips buzzed with nerves. He whispered a prayer for the men as his thoughts turned to his own capture. For two years he had been a prisoner of the Germans. An RAF bomber pilot, he had been shot down over southern Germany. To this day he couldn’t figure out why he had survived when all his crew in the Lancaster had perished. For five days he had hidden in the woods, avoided patrols. Starvation had forced his hand, and he had gone hunting for food, only to run into a group of Hitler Youth. They had been so proud when they showed up at the local garrison with their prisoner.
“Morning, PG,” Chalky said, breaking Robert from his retrospection.
“All right.” Robert nodded.
Chalky had a flop of brown hair that he never seemed to tame. “All right. No siren so far.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Well, ain’t you a box a’ birds this morning.”
“I have lot on my mind, so pardon me if I’m curt this early.”
“Well excuse me, Lord Muck.” Chalky grinned. “You think they made it?”
“They better have. I spent a long time planning this effort.”
“We all did, PG. Anyway, no siren has to be good news.”
“Maybe.”
Robert rubbed his thumb over the handle on his cup. His nerves were always frayed whenever they attempted an escape. He knew how brutal the Nazis were. Anyone who stood in their way knew that.
“Bloomin’ German snow.”
“You want the Welsh sludge instead?”
“Aye. At least it’ll be free snow.”
The two men drank their tea in silence for a few minutes and shared a cigarette as the rest of Hut 5 stirred awake.
The Stalag’s klaxon rang out and the tannoy blared, ordering the men to line up for the morning headcount.
“Here we go. Metz and his rote.” Chalky shook his head as he stood. “Don’t know how much I can take of his ramblings. He’s not right in the ’ead.”
Robert sighed and said, “So regimented, you could set your watch to it.”
“Aye, I do.” Chalky winked.
Hut by hut, the prisoners walked through the fresh snow to the parade ground, stamping their feet and wrapping their hands under their arms to fend off the chill.
Kommandant Metz paced back and forth on the raised platform in silence, hands firmly clasped behind his back, in full uniform. He wore a light gray overcoat, double breasted and belted at the waist. The belt was polished to perfection and matched his knee-high boots. Robert focused on the skull insignia in the middle of Metz’s cap. Many times over the years, he had pictured putting a bullet right there.
Several more soldiers than normal accompanied him. They sneered at the prisoners, gloved fingers caressing the trigger guards of their weapons.
Metz stopped pacing and stared directly at Robert. He only ever spoke German, and Robert was one of the translators.
“I think of myself as a fair man. A man of duty,” Metz said.
The gathered prisoners murmured their disagreement.
“Most of you have accepted your failings and obey my rules. But unfortunately, not all.”
As Robert translated, he looked at Chalky with a growing trepidation. He had heard no sirens. Not a peep. More German soldiers entered the square, pushing five hooded men ahead of them. Robert closed his eyes and blew a long breath out. “Bollocks,” he muttered.
“These five chose to disobey and escape. Fools!” Metz spat, his face turning red. “There’s nothing but woods for twenty kilometers.” Metz made a visible effort to calm himself and signaled to his soldiers to bring the hooded men onto the platform.
The platform served a second purpose – gallows. Instead of nooses, the Nazi soldiers tied rope around each of the prisoners’ legs, then hoisted them up so that they hung by their feet, their heads a few centimeters off the ground.
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The gathered prisoners of war shouted in protest. “You can’t do this!” one man cried.
“Sons of bitches,” another called out.
A small section of the prisoners surged forward, only to be beaten back with sticks and the butts of the soldiers’ rifles. Metz signaled to a soldier in the nearest guard tower, and machine gun fire rattled out. The guard had aimed high, but the message was clear: any disobedience would be punished. The men who had surged forward picked themselves up and dusted the snow from their clothing. Robert recognized them now. They were from Hut 7 – the same hut as the captured and hooded men.
Metz strolled past the hanging prisoners and pulled their hoods off, revealing their bloodied, bruised faces. Eyes purple and swollen shut, lips puffy and encrusted with mucus and blood.
“I want you all to learn a lesson here today,” Metz said. “There is no escape. Not from my camp. Not now, not ever.” Metz drew his Luger and aimed it at the nearest hanging prisoner. The man did everything he could to get away from the pistol. He thrashed, twisting the rope holding his feet so that he started to spin. Metz barked out a scoff. He whistled to the soldiers holding the dogs around the platform. The soldiers stepped forward, their Alsatians straining at their leashes, growling, saliva flying. Metz stepped off the platform, whistling again, and the Nazis released the dogs. Immediately they lunged at the hanging prisoners, nipping and biting. Once they got a taste of the blood, they tore into the flesh and throats of the condemned men. The prisoners screamed in terror as the dogs ate them alive, their snouts coated in blood.
Robert clenched his fists by his side and cursed Metz. He took one step forward, and then another. He was not quite sure what he was going to do. All he knew was that he wanted the macabre execution to end. Chalky stepped forward with him, then another man, and another. Soon all the prisoners surged forward. Metz spun and started firing his Luger into the crowd. The soldiers and the machine gun added to the din. Robert grabbed Chalky by the arm and hit the ground, sliding against the platform.
As quickly as the shooting started, it stopped. Cordite and the scent of blood hung in the crisp air.
Robert gasped as he looked over the square. Dozens of his camp mates lay dead or injured. A soldier hauled Robert up and turned him to face Metz.
“That is what you get. Keep your men in line or there will be more deaths.”
Robert bit his tongue to stop from exploding into a tirade of abuse. Blood rushed in his ears and a red mist obscured his vision.
A hand grasped his wrist in a vice-like grip. “Not now,” Chalky said.
All Robert could manage was a nod in acknowledgement. Chalky spoke wisely, but a hatred flowed through Robert; a hatred he had never experienced before. Something was changing inside him. An ember of an idea burned in his soul. He breathed deep, calming his rage, and centered on the mission he had mapped out for his life. End the cycle.
“We can’t leave them like this. They’re good Christian men,” Robert said.
“You have until this evening to bury them,” Metz said.
“Kommandant?”
“What, Englishman?”
“Before this war, I thought of Germany as a civilized nation. Filled with men of upstanding character and integrity. But now I’ve come to realize that you have fallen to the rantings of a madman. I pity your souls and cry for the nation you have become.”
Metz glared at him for a long time before stomping away.
It took the prisoners the rest of the day to bury all the men. Thirty-five lost in total. Thirty-five too many.
“Sign up!” Chalky said as he shoveled the last of the soil over the grave. “Join the army and fight the tyranny of Germany. You’ll be home by Christmas. What a crock a’ shite.”
“They didn’t specify which Christmas, did they?”
“Leave it out, Spud,” Chalky said. “Ain’t you on cooking duty?”
“All right, I’m going.” Spud was a short, stocky man from Hut 5, always willing to help where he was needed. Robert liked him for that.
“What now, PG?” Chalky said.
“We carry on,” Robert said. “We carry on and get home so we can beat the Nazis. Otherwise these men died for nothing.”
“Aye,” Chalky and several others replied.
Four months later
Robert Prendergast detected the subtle change in the air moments before the cave-in began. The two years spent working his father’s mines, which had attuned his senses to the environment, saved him. The clay soil farther along the tunnel first cracked, then sagged. The thin wooden planks they were using as a support structure were no match for the tons of weight above. After a moment of panic, Robert reached out and grabbed the shirt collar of his digging companion and hauled him to one side. He brought his other arm across his face and, using the crook of his elbow, covered his nose and mouth even as he jammed his head as close to the ventilation tube as possible. The clatter of the falling soil filled his eardrums.
Within seconds they were covered in the thick brown clay. His hearing became muffled, and before long, his other senses were confused as to which way his body was oriented. He took a couple of shallow breaths and forced himself to remain calm. His father had been a strong advocate for safety in the mines he owned, and, as a result, all employees were trained to survive cave-ins.
Robert first checked that his limbs could move. He wiggled his toes and fingers and pressed his hand against the neck of his fellow sapper – Javier Ibrox. The small Spaniard responded by squeezing his hand. He and Javier had managed to create a decent air pocket and, with a bit of work, were soon able to sit together with their knees drawn up. Robert spent a few minutes scrambling around locating the candle and relighting it. He held it up and quickly realized they were going nowhere. When he turned to Javier, he saw the man’s eyes were wide with fear.
“Keep calm. They’ll dig us out,” Robert said, speaking Spanish.
“You think so?”
“Of course. No man left behind. We all agreed before we started.”
Again, he was thankful that his father had insisted he learn languages. Prendergast was a mining family, had been for decades. Maybe even a century. No one in the family could find any records any further back than the 1850s. They mainly mined Welsh coal but also had gold, silver, and copper mines. Robert’s father had expanded the operation into the Commonwealth, opening mines in Australia, Canada, India, and South Africa.
Robert showed Javier where the ventilation shaft was. They took turns placing their noses inside it and taking deep breaths. The air filled their lungs, but the odor of human waste was unpleasant.
“I’m glad you installed these,” Javier said.
“It was necessary. The Krauts kept discovering our tunnels, so we had to go deeper.”
Javier spat. “Damn Krauts.”
“Yes, indeed,” Robert said. He hated the Nazis as much as anyone on his side, but the more death he saw, the more he wished for a better world, one free of hate and destruction.
“My father wanted me to be an engineer, but I chose medicine. It seems like that was a good decision. I never would have come up with your ingenuity,” Javier said.
Robert nodded his thanks. The ventilation problem had confounded the digging committee for months. They’d needed clean air in the tunnel, but how? Like all good ideas, the solution had hit Robert while he was doing something completely unrelated – fixing the Kommandant’s toilet. The Kommandant insisted on having an internal WC to show his authority. The pipes and release valve had no support under the building. Robert explained the problem and was given permission to build it out of bricks. It was then he realized that the tunnel they wanted to dig would go directly under where he was. All they had to do was attach a small piece of pipe, dig a small shaft, and they had clean – but not always fresh – air. All disguised by the brick support structure. All the mathematical boffins had to do was calculate where each shaft was. It had worked amazingly well.
“I always meant to ask how you ended up here, Javier.”
“The Nazi soldiers came into my village looking for Jews. Our mayor said Spain is neutral. But the Kraut leader shook his head and said we were in France. Then he shot the mayor, and the soldiers went crazy, beating anyone that stood against them, and raping the women. They marched anyone they thought was a Jew away.” Javier shook his head and took another turn at the air vent. “For days I did nothing but think of vengeance. Seeing the shame on my wife’s face only made it worse. That night I snuck into France over a mountain pass, looking for the Kraut leader.”
