The Devil's Claw Read online

  An Adirondack Thriller by

  Nick Pignatelli

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  THE DEVIL’S CLAW

  Copyright © 2013 by Nick Pignatelli

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1494202387

  ISBN-13: 978-1494202385

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author.

  Cover design and artwork by Nick Pignatelli

  Photograph of Nick Pignatelli by Joyce Pignatelli

  www.nickpignatelli.com

  ~ DEDICATION ~

  To my grandson, Cody,

  for setting the

  cold, rusty gears of life

  back in motion.

  CONTENTS

  Part One: Compiegne, France 1943

  Chapter 1: Stealing the dream

  Chapter 2: Twenty-four hours ago

  Chapter 3: The stranger

  Chapter 4: The Lysander

  Chapter 5: The raid begins

  Chapter 6: Team One

  Chapter 7: Teams Two and Three

  Chapter 8: Team Four

  Chapter 9: Team Five

  Chapter 10: Team One

  Chapter 11: Teams Two and Three

  Chapter 12: Team Three

  Chapter 13: Team One

  Chapter 14: Team Four

  Chapter 15: Team Five

  Chapter 16: Team One

  Chapter 17: Upper level of the villa

  Chapter 18: The meadow

  Chapter 19: The Lysander

  Chapter 20: The villa

  Chapter 21: The airstrip

  Chapter 22: The villa

  Chapter 23: The airstrip

  Chapter 24: Departure

  Chapter 25: Aboard the Junkers Ju 52

  Chapter 26: England

  Chapter 27: On the road

  Chapter 28: Bimbeck Pier

  Chapter 29: Looking back at the war

  Part Two: Medicine Bow Mountains, Colorado 2008

  Chapter 30: A walk in the woods

  Chapter 31: Discovery

  Chapter 32: Ghosts

  Chapter 33: Resurrection

  Chapter 34: Wheels-up

  Chapter 35: Awaken the beast

  Chapter 36: Coming home

  Chapter 37: Four months later

  Part Three: Adirondack Mountains, New York 2015

  Chapter 38: A new dawn

  Chapter 39: The final journey

  Chapter 40: Worlds collide

  Chapter 41: The Centurions

  Chapter 42: When dreams become nightmares

  Chapter 43: The one that got away

  Chapter 44: Turn loose the dogs

  Chapter 45: The best laid plans

  Chapter 46: The killing field

  Chapter 47: What if?

  Chapter 48: The Reapers

  Chapter 49: Pointing fingers

  Chapter 50: Run, rabbit, run

  Chapter 51: Open the gates of hell

  Chapter 52: Breakout

  Chapter 53: The end of the road

  Chapter 54: The shell game

  Chapter 55: Haven

  Chapter 56: Reunions

  Chapter 57: Revelations

  Chapter 58: Contact and consequences

  Chapter 59: Choosing sides

  Chapter 60: Rebounds and repercussions

  Chapter 61: Face-off

  Chapter 62: A test of alliances

  Chapter 63: Live by the sword, die by the claw

  Chapter 64: A tale of smoke and mirrors

  Chapter 65: The last stand

  Chapter 66: Picking up the pieces

  Chapter 67: Redemption

  Chapter 68: Sightings and speculations

  Chapter 69: Full circle

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The watcher lay hidden, a battle-scarred Thompson submachine gun within reach. His eyes strained to penetrate the murky shroud covering the sprawling villa as the sounds of night fell gently all around. United States Army Captain Lawrence P. Newmont marveled at the size of the structure, never having seen private homes this big in the small upstate New York town he called home. He lowered his binoculars and checked his wristwatch. Twelve minutes to go.

  Newmont rolled onto his back, his holstered .45 caliber pistol digging into his hip. A few wisps of clouds crept across the sky in the faint light of the moon. He would have preferred to do this on a darker night but the Lysander flying toward him depended on the moon’s feeble illumination for visual navigation. He breathed deeply, cool air flowing into his lungs. His pulse quickened. Almost time.

  He looked to one side, then the other, unable to see any of his men scattered around the perimeter but confident they were all in their assigned positions. Private First Class Eugene Dalton, communications expert and group medic, was on Newmont’s left, while the leader of the French Resistance fighters, a middle-aged man named Vincent, lay to his right.

  Newmont’s commander, Major John T. Clarkson, had made it clear that this mission could decide the fate of the Allied war effort. “The Nazis may have finally succeeded in their quest to create the ultimate weapon,” Clarkson said. “If your team fails to steal or destroy it, there is a very good chance we will lose this war. The fate of the Allied war effort is in your hands. May God watch over you and your men.”

  Two nights ago, Newmont and nine American commandos had parachuted into northern France, and after rendezvousing with eight members of the French Resistance, hid in a small rundown barn at the far edge of an abandoned vineyard east of Compiegne. Earlier this night, the combined group of American commandos and Resistance fighters converged on the villa, encircling it like an invisible noose.

  Their mission was simple. Sneak into the villa used by the Nazis as a research facility, liberate a French scientist and his assistant working under duress on a top-secret project for the Third Reich, and get them safely back to England. A Westland Lysander Mk IIIA SD would land in a small meadow less than two miles to the east. If things went well the scientist and his assistant would be hustled aboard the aircraft before the enemy was even aware Newmont’s men had freed them.

  The matte black Lysander was configured for clandestine operations behind enemy lines, but carried no armament. Fortunately, the pilot was a seasoned veteran of many stealthy night flights to this very area. As soon as the two men were picked up, the aircraft would head back to England while Newmont’s men were extracted with help from the Resistance.

  A fairly simple plan, or so it seemed.

  Sergeant Jimmy Santora slipped out of the barn and glided through the darkness toward Corporal Bill Heinemann, who watched the area to the front of their hideout. Private First Class Fred Wilkins watched the rear. Santora dropped to the ground and crept closer. He heard Heinemann whisper, “Thunder.” Then Santora said, “Lightning.” Heinemann whispered from the darkness, “Approach.”

  Santora crawled to Heinemann’s position. At six feet tall and 210 pounds, Heinemann was solid muscle, the reason he was nicknamed Bull. Heinemann was nestled behind a pile of large rocks that had been a stone wall before war visited the land. “How’s it look, Bull?” Santora whispered.

  Heinemann shifted the barrel of his M3 submachine gun. “All quiet, Sarge.”

  Santora scanned the area. Soon they woul
d be on the move again, and that suited him just fine. It was always harder to hit a moving target. “As long as you’re all set here, I’m going to check on Wilkins.”

  Before Santora could get to his feet, a stooped figure in tattered clothing shuffled toward the barn, a hat and upturned coat collar working with the night to shroud any facial features. It was hard to tell in the darkness but the uninvited caller appeared to be carrying a rifle. Santora tightened his grip on the Thompson submachine gun, and made his move.

  The stranger paused before the structure. He saw no one, but suddenly froze.

  Jimmy Santora had silently made his way behind the stranger and pressed the razor-sharp blade of his M3 trench knife against his throat. Santora whispered, “Drop the rifle.”

  “I have no rif—” the stranger began, but Santora cut him off. “Then drop whatever is in your damn hand!” Something clattered to the ground. “You better have a good reason for being here, mon ami, or get ready to meet your maker.”

  The stranger responded in a shaky voice, “The wolf runs free.”

  Lawrence Newmont had been watching through a small gap between two broken planks on the wall near the doorway. Rucksacks containing provisions, explosives, and ammunition were scattered behind him along with the remaining six men in his force, some quietly checking their equipment by dim candlelight, others pacing the room, weapons in hand. Heavy fabric had been secured over the windows.

  When Newmont snapped his fingers, all eyes looked up. He waved his pistol in a circular motion. His men blew out the candles and grabbed their weapons. He glanced out the tiny gap in the wall as Santora and the unknown figure approached. Newmont held his .45 caliber pistol out and eased to one side as Santora shoved the stranger through the doorway.

  Newmont flicked on his flashlight. A red filter over the lens gave the interior of the barn a hellish hue. Santora pointed to Private First Class Dan Jennings. The lanky twenty-one-year-old from Alabama was the youngest member of the group and the best marksman.

  “Outside Danny-boy and keep watch with Bull,” Santora said. “Make sure our friend here wasn’t followed. And pick up the rifle he dropped in the path.”

  “Right, Sarge.”

  “Danny, tell Bull and Wilkins about our visitor here,” said Santora. “Move the perimeter out just to be safe. Stay out there with them. They can use an extra set of eyes.”

  “On my way, Sarge.” Jennings closed the door softly behind him. Santora maintained his grip on the stranger’s collar.

  “Who are you?” Newmont demanded. The stranger stood silent, glancing from man to man and the weapons trained on him. He faced Newmont just as the American placed his weapon between the stranger’s eyes.

  “Please!” The stranger tried to back away from the muzzle.

  “I asked you a question!” Newmont said.

  “The…wolf…runs...free,” the stranger repeated.

  “But the eagle flies high,” said Newmont.

  The stranger’s shoulders sagged as the tension flowed from him. “Captain Newmont?” he croaked.

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “I am Jean-Claude LeDuc with The Resistance. I have a message from Dr. Gautier, one of the men you are to liberate.”

  Newmont saw LeDuc was an old man in his sixties, maybe even seventies. “You’re awfully old to be fighting a war, aren’t you?”

  LeDuc threw his shoulders back and stood tall, his unshaven jaw jutting out proudly. “And would your age stop you from fighting bloodthirsty murderers if they marched into your American town?”

  “Fair enough. Now, what message do you have?”

  “The Germans are going to move Dr. Gautier to Berlin where his work can be put on display for the Fuehrer.”

  “Does he know when this will happen?”

  “They told him to be ready to move in two days. There is a convoy traveling from Paris to Berlin. They plan to divert it here to pick him up.”

  “Do you know how big the convoy is?”

  LeDuc shook his head. “We have no specifics.”

  Newmont looked at Santora. The sergeant had finally let loose of the Frenchman’s coat collar and sheathed his knife. “That’s the same day as our raid. Sergeant, can we be ready to go tomorrow night instead?”

  “I think we can move the raid up,” said Santora. “I’d rather fight a handful of Germans instead of waiting around to fight a whole convoy.” He waved Corporal Patrick “Paddy” O’Connell over. “What do you think, Paddy? How do we look for tomorrow night?”

  “We’re all set, Sarge. We could go right now if we had to.”

  Newmont turned to LeDuc. “Can you let Gautier know we’ll be there tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, Captain,” LeDuc said.

  “And can your people get a message to England to make sure the aircraft will be here in time for the pickup?”

  “Mais oui certainement! I will get back right away so a message can be sent.”

  “What if the convoy gets here early?” said Santora.

  “Not to worry, Sergeant,” said LeDuc. “We have already prepared a number of distractions to keep the Germans occupied all the way from Paris to Compiegne. If anything, they will be late.” His eyes met Santora’s. “And about my rifle, Sergeant? You will be surprised to see it is just a walking stick.” LeDuc smiled. “Sergeant, all is forgiven, as one cannot be too careful in these times, yes?”

  Santora smiled back. “I’ll make sure you have it before you leave.” He hesitated. “You don’t even have a weapon on you?”

  “But of course not, Sergeant.”

  “You can take my pistol if you feel safer going back armed.”

  The Frenchman shrugged. “Now why would I need a weapon, Sergeant? I am just an old man walking through the countryside looking for my only cow. It wandered off and is all I have left from this terrible conflict.” He winked at the Americans.

  “All right then, Mr. LeDuc, Sergeant Santora,” said Newmont. “Let’s see what we need for tomorrow night.”

  Ten minutes later LeDuc was on his feet, walking stick in hand, preparing to go back to his fellow French warriors. He had memorized all of the details Newmont and Santora had thrown at him, the two Americans amazed at his mental retention.

  Newmont firmly gripped the Frenchman’s weathered hand. “Until tomorrow night, my friend.”

  “Bonne chance, Captain.” LeDuc disappeared into the darkness.

  “Moves pretty good for an old guy, Captain.”

  Newmont turned to Santora. “He sure does. Let’s hope he gets back to his people with our instructions or we’ll be sitting ducks for the Germans.”

  Flight Lieutenant Trevor Stirling gripped the aircraft’s shaking control column with one hand while jockeying the throttle with the other as another wave of severe vibrations ran through the Lysander’s airframe. Even in the cold temperature of the cockpit, the RAF uniform beneath his flying jacket was soaked with sweat.

  Stirling’s aircraft was running rough, but it was still running. The Lysander had taken some serious hits from a German night fighter that surprised him out in the open. As the first bullet had crashed through the canopy, he shoved the control column forward and to the right while jamming down on the right rudder pedal. The Lysander dove and swung under the attacker. Luckily, the enemy plane had only made one sweep at him before the British aircraft dropped to treetop level and faded into the darkened landscape. Such was the risk Lysander pilots faced flying their small unarmed aircraft in the dead of night deep into enemy occupied areas, and always when the moon was at its fullest.

  Stirling checked his hand-held compass. It had been his father’s and he always made sure it was in his jacket pocket before climbing into his cockpit. He vividly remembered the day he left for flight training. With moist eyes his father said the compass would always get him home. Stirling smiled as he squeezed it tight, his eyes on the destroyed aircraft compass attached to a bracket that extended from the instrument panel and sat between his knees. The dial h
ad one large bullet hole right through the center. It was a miracle he had not been injured by either the flying debris from the panel or the bullets doing the damage. The Lysander started to shake again and drift to the right. He fought the wounded plane to get back on course.

  Stirling was unable to use his shattered instrument dials to determine where the damage was. The right front section of the canopy was shattered, cold night air blowing through. The bullets had slammed into the instrument panel leaving most of it a mangled mess. The rest of the German’s short burst had ripped a few holes in the area forward of the canopy. He chanced a glance out the glasshouse canopy to see if there were any signs of exterior damage. Moonlight glanced off the cowling and he could see no smoke or fluids seeping from the engine. The nine-cylinder, Bristol Mercury XX radial engine continued to churn, albeit a little rough.

  Stirling was close to his rendezvous point and had no alternative but to keep going and hope he could land safely, repair the damage, and be back in the air before he was discovered by the enemy.

  He took stock of his survival equipment. If he went down before reaching his destination the odds were against him making it back to England with the two chocolate bars in his pocket, a canteen of warm water, and the Webley Mk IV service revolver stuffed in his right boot. Nevertheless, he did have his father’s compass and his father said it would get him back home. I hope I see you soon, Dad.

  He spread the map across his lap, wrestling with the heavily creased paper as it fought to take flight in the wind. “Now then, where exactly are we?”

  Newmont whispered, “Dalton,” then edged closer. “Ready?”

  Eugene Dalton, short and wiry, cradled his Thompson submachine gun in the crook of his left arm. He looked into Newmont's face, the whites of his eyes floating in the blackness around them. “All set, sir.”

  Dalton, a communications expert, was the newest member of Newmont’s group. This was only his third mission. Newmont decided to keep him close. Better to send the battle-tested veterans in first. Newmont would approach the villa with Dalton and Vincent, the Resistance leader, and move into a support position as soon as the raid started.