The Bear and Eagle Affair

 by Kevin Schmitt

The Man  From U.N.C.L.E.

 

Chapter One

 


The guard observed the approach of the hand pulled cart with his usual lackluster expression. But as its owner-operator passed through the large barbed wire gate, the middle aged sentry’s eyes widened almost as much as they did the day he was forced back into the Wehrmacht. Behind the shabbily dressed peddler was a collection of old musical instruments, including an honest to God sousaphone.

 John “Busty” Brown, scrounger extraordinaire had been given permission to meet with the salesman in front of the delousing station. Many eyes were upon them, but since no one had any pest control issues at the moment, the two men were pretty much alone. Brown briefly examined the rolling stock and then shook his head in disapproval.

 “Everyone of these instruments has at least one sticky valve.”

 “I’ve made arrangements with a fix it shop to deal with those problems one instrument at a time,” said the peddler.

 “Screw that, Wendal. You get your property fixed, then sell it to me.”

 “I don’t have money to spend on repairs, but you do,” countered the peddler.

 “I won’t after I’ve bought this junk,” declared Brown. “I’ll be tapped out for six months at least.”

 “Oh, God you are such a lying sack of excrement. You deserve to be in jail the way you operate,” Wendal said loud enough for the guards and fellow P.O.W.s to hear.

 That line caused some sporadic chuckling.

 “Need I remind you that I am not a criminal,” the Englishman declared with a lofty expression. “I am a non-commissioned officer who was honorably captured while serving King and Country.”

 “Please, Goebells gives us enough of that sort of crap on the radio. But I’ll take the sousaphone back and get that repaired with my own money.”

 Brown picked up a cornet and pretended to point out a defect to the peddler.

 “John Amery is a traitor. I have my suspicions about William Joyce as well.”

 “You’d better have proof,” the man in the baggy suit muttered under his breath. “Those two won’t be easy to convict, and you will not be remembered with great fondness by your associates.”

 “Scroungers are never popular. We’re envied too much.”

 “And seldom seen in a patriotic light,” muttered Wendal.

 “One last thing: I want you to keep an eye on Margery Booth.”

 “The Abwehr has no doubt taken an interest in the fact that you meet with her. I don’t think—“

 “Do it,” snapped Brown, “or your people can write me off as an operative.”

 “You’re a bleeding heart,” muttered the salesman.

 “And you threw yours away,” Brown countered.

 The salesman was not insulted. He understood John Henry Brown very well and appreciated the fact that they were cut from two different bolts of cloth. Brown had started out as a Quartermaster Sergeant in the British Army. Mi5 recruited him for special service because he had been a member of the British Union of Fascists. It was arranged that he be captured at Dunkirk, and from there on he would have to improvise a way to become a traitor to his country.

Continued here:

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Kevin Schmitt lives in Shakopee Minnesota and has been a factory worker for 35 years. He kayaks in the summer and writes fiction during the cold weather months.

Boot Print in Time

  by Kevin Schmitt

  

Chapter One

“Maldicion,” the horseman groaned as his right boot cleared the hind quarters of his battle weary mount.

 Pulled muscles were rare in the nether regions of a cavalryman, but this particular warrior had been reaching too far with his sword. Primarily because the enemy heads were too close to the ground. The young man yanked off his helmet, which along with his stained riding boots were the only belongings that identified him as a Conquistador, albeit a torn and battered one.

 His clothing was made up of dense quilted cotton, courtesy of the people he had been fighting. The material was called lchcahuipilli, and while it was inferior to steel plate armor, it could turn away most obsidian swords or atlatl darts. It was lighter and cooler than chain maille and didn’t rub against the flesh. It also didn’t rust, not that the young nobleman would have to concern himself with that little problem. A gentleman need only keep his beard trimmed and his cock out of reach of any pox infested whores, and as of late, that had been fairly easy to do.

The gore covered Spaniard took a swig f cheap wine from a goat skin then wordlessly nodded to the servant who was never out of calling distance, regardless of the circumstances.

 “Jefa---I am wondering---do you think there are cities in hell?” queried the servant as he slung the goat bag over his chest and shoulder.

 Captain Cisaro Longoria gazed up at the red haze that haloed the nearest wall of the Aztec metropolis. It came from a thousand fires that would illuminate the city until dawn.

 “Oh yes. But that need not concern you my old friend. The Devil would never allow you in. Your farts would be worse than any brimstone smell. Not to mention the rest of you.”

 Old Pedro Gonzales smiled at the joke; anything to divert his attention from the sounds of women shrieking in the distance. Gonzales had long served Cisaro’s father, and in those days he had learned that a city is not simply taken, it is raped, looted and brought down to its lowest possible level of humanity. The Spaniards were taking little joy in that. Their leader, Hernan Cortes had spent the last year recruiting native warriors from the outer regions, and those men were teaching the Spaniards the real meaning of total warfare.

 The Aztec capital was called Tenochtitlan and since it’s founding in 1325 it had faced no real destructive force save that of occasional floods from surrounding bogs. But the endorheic basin wet lands made the city into a kind of Island, which was beneficial from a defensive military point of view. The city itself was incredibly symmetrical with over forty public structures and enough living quarters for twenty-thousand people. Of course as a hub of commerce, the city could also accommodate many thousands of citizens from the outer reaches of the realm.

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