The Stuff of Legends Raid

Cheri

The desert. I am home, only I'm not. This is the Sahara, half a world away from the American Southwest where I intend to settle if I ever get back there. It's been four months since I destroyed the death camp on the German/Polish border where Gabe died.

Gabe … died. I am still having difficulty with that concept, in spite of carrying his Thor's hammer on a thong around my neck. Gabe, the man who pulled me out of my self-destructive life when I was fifteen is gone, forever. I should have cried, but I have no tears for his passing. I want to scream and destroy everything and every one who had a hand in his death. I want Gabe back. But there are no tears for his passing, for my grief, just this numb blackness in my heart where my dark Irish Viking once lived.

Some of the men, I use the term loosely for the people who worked the death camp, were not there the night Gabe died. I've tracked the two survivors to the desert. I know they are still seeking the army they were attempting to construct on the Polish border, a flood of monsters to send against the world. Creatures only spoken of in legends and superstitious beliefs to be unleashed on a rational, science based society. They were ready to crush the world in their zeal to conquer it when they discovered a part of Gabe's secrets. Just as well they did not discover mine, I was 'just a woman' and of little consequence or interest to them save as a victim of their lusts and experiments.

If it costs me my life, I will stop these monsters before they cause any more grief, if I can. It it takes my live to destroy them, I will pay that price. I will pay with other lives as well. Nothing matters to me except their final solution. Or should that be dissolution? I'm no longer sure I care.

I am calling myself Ysabet Rakocy, a Middle European survivor of the horrors of a concentration camp. I let them know that Ekhard and Goethe are here, in the Sahara, looking at setting up a new camp here where there will be even less supervision than there was on the Polish border. I have offered my services to the Allied commanders because I can identify Col. Wolfrick Ekhard of the SS and Dr. Stedman Goethe of the medical corps. It is hard to make the soldiers who fight this war understand that they must be stopped before they create monsters out of the old tales. They are men of science, aside from the logic of three on a match in on the battle field, they give superstition no credence, even those of the Arab populations around them. So I give them information that the two are the vanguard of a new war machine, that they will harness the Arabs and force them to work for the German army by use of methods pioneered in Poland.

They do not like the sound of that and are willing to let me lead one of their desert harrier squads to where the villains are setting up for business. I do not have access to the orders that brought these men here, but I cannot believe there is any innocence in them. Just like me, there is only blood and death wherever they go.