Читать книгу Seeking Valhalla - Eric G. Swedin - Страница 17

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Junkers Ju-52 took off at dusk, weaving down the field to avoid the bomb craters and debris. Krohn had left the brigadier general lying on the ground, still alive, choking on his own blood. He liked the idea that the general’s blood, mixing with the soil of the Fatherland, might act as a sacrifice for the man’s cowardice.

The other fifteen officers sat nearby, where they had been guarded by the twins until takeoff. Krohn had locked their pistols in the car and had no intention of allowing them to find other weapons. The twins also searched them and filled a bag with money, jewels, and even three small bars of gold.

Krohn looked out of the window as the transport circled the field. Some of the officers on the field were shooting up at the airplane with their pistols. Not much chance of hitting them with such short-range weapons, but he imagined that it helped with the frustration.

Turning in his seat, Krohn’s eyes met the eyes of the virgin for a moment. She sat across from him, handcuffed to the metal bars that formed the frame for her canvas seat. She did not blink.

The pilot headed the airplane north, flying just five hundred feet off the ground. Night came quickly. Faint illumination came from a dim red light near the rear exit door. Krohn looked out the window. High clouds hid the stars and the full moon. It was so dark that he couldn’t see anything. They could fly into the ground, or a hill, or a building, without any warning.

Krohn hoped that this would not be his last view of the Fatherland, so dark that nothing was visible. Of course, that was fitting in its own way, for darkness truly had descended on the nation that he loved. Perhaps his mission would redeem all that seemed lost, but even if he succeeded, he suspected that it might be at the cost of his own life. That was a sacrifice that he was willing to make, just as willing as all the sacrifices that he had made already. He glanced over at the virgin, but could only see her outline, her hair so full and feminine. So many sacrifices.

Krohn touched the Thor’s hammer that he wore on a chain around his neck. As a child his mother had insisted that he wear a cross, and he had learned to pray to the Christ, but as a man he had claimed a man’s religion, not the religion of children, women, and weaklings. Odin and his son Thor were warriors, not pacifists who turned the other cheek.

The dark outside the window drew his eyes back. At such a time, he supposed that a lesser man felt fear. Of course, fear was just weakness. The time of a man’s life was determined by the length of his thread on the tapestry woven by the three sisters, the Norns, who sat at the foot of Yggdrasil, the world tree, dictating the destinies of men. Even the gods had to submit to their design.

Gently rubbing Thor’s hammer between his fingers, Krohn accepted his fate as the airplane flew on through the night.