David Wood, Rick Chesler
Amber
Prologue
Anguished cries of the dying echoed through the underground chamber. A weary contingent of German soldiers lay about the grungy space in various states of fatigue and illness-induced stupor. Major Hans Goering, their superior officer on this outing, gave a final shove with a pry bar, wrenching the lid from a wooden crate as one of the few men still able to move about staggered over to him. Goering let the tool drop to the dirt floor as he addressed his soldier.
“Private Schmidt, what is it?”
The young man quickly glanced back at the group of ailing soldiers lying on a disheveled mass of impromptu bedding before looking the major in the eyes.
“The men are saying it is the curse.” He lowered his head, no longer able to maintain eye contact with his superior.
Goering pursed his lips at his subordinate and then reached into the crate. He removed an object from it and held it in his hand while he admired its artistry. At length, he told his soldier, “There is no such thing as a curse,” without taking his eyes from the artifact.
At that moment something caught his eye and the major’s heart skipped a beat. He dropped the item as if it had bitten him and it landed on the dirt next to the crate. The soldier stared at it intently.
“Sir, what—“
Suddenly they heard loud voices and the clatter of footsteps approaching from the chamber’s sole entrance, the trammel of jackboots echoing into the subterranean cavity. The major used his foot to hastily cover the fallen object as best he could with pieces of splintered wood from the crate. He stood ramrod straight, forgetting about his newfound object as the new arrivals entered the space. His pulse quickened while at the same time his blood seemed to turn to sludge. Goering was used to being in command of his field unit, but these men would change that.
Schutzstaffel.
The word ricocheted around his skull like a kernel popping in a hot pan.
Of all the entities of the Third Reich, the SS was not to be trifled with. Their very presence demanded the utmost in attention to detail and signified that something was happening deemed to be of great import by Hitler himself. Goering didn’t recognize any of the individual men but he had no trouble identifying their uniforms. The boots, the red armbands bearing black swastikas, the… masks? That part was unusual. The SS men wore some type of gas mask.
The first of the contingent of eight SS into the room stepped up to Goering and spoke, his only preamble a cursory glance at the crate the major had just opened as well as a few more farther away from them. The major’s first impulse was to ask about the masks — he and his men did not carry them, were they safe? But he stifled that itch. It was the type of insubordination that could get him demoted or worse, and besides, he thought, as he listened to the groans of his men, clearly they were not safe. Not willing to risk unintentionally running afoul of the SS officer, he merely waited for the man to speak.
“Do not unpack these crates. They are being moved.” The voice was muffled behind the black rubber mask but still audible enough at this close range.
Goering flashed on the item now lying on the ground next to his own boots. He made a conscious effort not to look down. “Very well. I will have my men pack everything up.”
The lead SS man moved closer to the major while the other SS stood behind him, all of them staring intently around the chamber, at the crates, the walls, the slovenly men and their pitiful condition.
“We will do that. You and your men should retreat to your quarters and take these with you.” He pointed to the most ragged-looking of all the soldiers, those who wore not German but Russian uniforms.
The major’s face twisted into a mask of confusion.
“Forgive me, sir, but I do not understand.”
The SS officer’s voice rose. “It is not for you to understand. It is for you to obey.”
“Very well, sir. With your permission I will have my soldiers remove the unpacking debris to clear the area for your men to work in these cramped quarters.” He nodded at some broken pieces of wood left from opening a few of the other crates but did not reference the one at his feet.
“Be quick about it, Major!”
“Yes, sir!” He saluted the man and then spoke to his soldier who had seen him take the object from the crate. “Private Schmidt, gather the wood scraps and take them over there.” He pointed to a small alcove carved out of the earth. Schmidt followed his gaze to the area he knew was designated as the major’s private quarters, and Goering could see the questions forming on his lips.
“Private Schmidt!” He spoke sternly but at low volume. “Did you not understand my orders? I said gather the packing waste… ” Goering flicked his eyes ever so briefly to the scraps of wood covering the item at his feet. “…and remove it to that area there.” He pointed to the adjoining small chamber. At this Schmidt saluted him smartly and bent down to the ground beneath the crate, his back to the SS officer who was now talking to his fellow officers, something about how the attacks were intensifying.
Satisfied he had done everything he could, the major retreated to the rear of the chamber where he gave additional orders to those few of his men still able to carry them out, relating to moving them to their field quarters above ground. Then, with the SS still in the room, pointing to open crates, he retreated to the small antechamber that served as his private quarters while down here underground.
He lay on a cot and stared at nothing while the sounds of hammering reminded him of nails being driven into his own coffin.
Chapter 1
The commander stood on a desert plain, surveying a vast jumble of car-sized boulders not far away from where he stood with his squad. A large tract of the vast park had been closed with the cooperation of the National Park Service for the Navy’s usage of the terrain. He raised a megaphone to his lips.
“SEALs: Sea. Air. Land. Today’s training exercise will focus on the latter part of that equation. Are you ready to begin?”
“Yes sir!” A chorus went up in unison, but one voice was perhaps a bit louder than the others.
Dane Maddock squinted into the noonday sun as he looked at his commander. He knew the desert around them was wild and unforgiving, its topography varied, making it a favorite spot in which to train. There was also a surreal beauty about the place, with its red and brown dirt and rock hues dotted with green scrub brush and the occasional strange-looking trees like something out of a Dr. Seuss book that gave the park its namesake. Maddock found he had to disregard all that in order to stay focused on his mission, instead choosing to see his surroundings only in terms of tactical awareness — potential sniper nests, foxholes, climbing routes and survival resources.
“You all right, Maddock? You look like you just walked in on your parents making the beast with two backs.” This from the fellow SEAL by Maddock’s side.
“Don’t bug me, Bonebrake. I’m thinking.”
Uriah “Bones” Bonebrake, a broad-shouldered Cherokee who stood six-and-a-half feet tall, made a face that Maddock knew signified, “Well, excuse me for living.” He also knew from prior experience that it was unlikely the boisterous Indian would stay silent, and he did not disappoint now.
“Don’t strain yourself.”
The commander’s voice interrupted them both. “On the cargo net there you will find one rucksack per man. They are all identical so there’s no advantage to first pick. Each of you gets one. It contains all equipment sanctioned for this exercise, including climbing gear, weapons and med-kit. You will be using only non-lethal rounds for this exercise. Eliminating the opposition is not required in order to achieve your objective but may prove helpful.”