Barracuda Read online

  BARRACUDA

  A RYAN MITCHELL THRILLER

  BY RICHARD TURNER

  ~~~

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2015 by Richard Turner. All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  1

  Vienna

  April 9th, 1945

  For some the nightmare would soon be over; for others, it was just beginning.

  The horizon burnt bright, lit by thousands of fires. The dreadful sound of a thousand guns firing incessantly rumbled through the night. For the tens of thousands of terrified people who huddled in the dark, trapped in the Austrian capital, it seemed their fate was sealed. They awaited the coming dawn and the inevitable, final Soviet assault. The inhabitants of the centuries-old town knew that the Russians would soon take their revenge upon them for the years of brutal war fought on Soviet soil. For the city, defended by old men and young boys who lacked uniforms and sufficient ammunition, the end was near.

  A lone aircraft crossed the sky above the doomed city. The Fieseler Fi 156 Stork, a liaison aircraft, flew low, trying not to draw fire from the Soviet forces ringing the capital. Julie Schrader looked away from her instruments and peered anxiously down at the burning city. She had flown in and out of Vienna dozens of times; however, previously, she had always landed her agile plane at the city’s airport, or on one of the many landing strips on the outskirts of the city. Below her, she saw the dark waters of the Daube River. She turned on a small flashlight and hurriedly checked her map. Relief flooded over her; she knew exactly where she was. She banked her plane to the left and headed for the center of a capital whose control was still being contested by the besieged German forces.

  In the shadows of the city, a man crept out of the darkness. He stopped and carefully got up on one knee to see if the path ahead was clear of enemy soldiers. Thankfully, there was no one around. Oberst Muller looked down at his watch and swore. It was nearly one in the morning, and they still had not reached their objective. He and a dozen volunteers had been hastily dispatched into the city on a mission of extreme importance. One so vital that he was forbidden from telling his men the true reason for the near-suicidal assignment.

  Although only twenty-five, Muller was the oldest man in his command. His squad of handpicked SS troops knelt silently behind him. They, like him, had grown immune to the death and destruction around them. Satisfied the way ahead was clear, Muller stood up and waved for his team to follow him. Using the burnt out buildings for cover, they made their way toward the city center. When they were in sight of the Schönbrunn Palace, Muller’s well-honed instincts kicked in. The imposing stone residence, once the summer home of the Austrian monarchy, stood dark and quiet. He could not see anything out of the ordinary, but something told him to be wary. Muller stepped back behind cover. “Send up the vampires,” he said quietly to the soldier in line behind him.

  Two men made their way to Muller’s side. Nicknamed vampires because they did their killing in the dark, the soldiers each carried a battery pack upon their backs and specially designed scopes and lights on their assault rifles. Each man had more than a hundred kills to his name. Muller pointed to a burnt-out bus lying on its side in the middle of the street. Together, the three men dashed over to the wreckage. Muller took cover behind the bus while his men spread out, looking for the enemy. It did not take long. Both hunters quickly spotted what had been troubling Muller. On the bottom floor of a nearby building, the members of a Soviet patrol were standing about, taking turns drinking from a couple of wine bottles that they had found. Muller knew that time was not on his side. He could not wait for them to leave, nor could he backtrack and try to find another way around. He would have to deal with the Russians right here and now. He placed a hand on the nearest sniper and whispered, “When I bring the rest of the squad forward, kill the Ivans.”

  “With pleasure,” replied the battle-hardened soldier.

  Muller dashed back and gathered up his men. He decided on a route through the debris-strewn courtyard to the palace and, keeping as low as he could, Muller began to run. His heart raced in his chest. His gut told him otherwise, but if there were more Russians soldiers in the area, he and his men would be cut down before they made it across the courtyard.

  Six shots cut through the night air, the Soviet patrol’s death knell. A couple of seconds later, Muller led his men up the stairs and inside the centuries-old building. He left one man to guard the entrance while the rest of them headed into the basement. Muller had memorized precisely where he needed to go, so it did not take him long to find the room he was looking for. The way inside was blocked by a heavy steel door. He dug out a key and slid it into the lock. He had been told that it was the only remaining key that fit the lock. With a turn of the wrist, the door opened. He let out the breath he’d been holding and stepped inside. The room was empty, with the exception of several unmarked wooden crates neatly stacked in the center. “These all have to be brought outside,” he said to his men.

  Within minutes, the wooden boxes were stacked neatly on the ground by Muller’s feet. He checked his watch and saw that they had run out of time.

  “Sir, listen,” said one of Muller’s men.

  Muller turned his head and looked up into the dark, cloud-filled sky. All he could hear was the rumble of the Russian guns. He was about to tell the soldier that he was letting his imagination get the better of him when Muller heard the sound of an engine. It was faint, but it was unmistakably an airplane flying closer by the second.

  “Fire the flare,” ordered Muller.

  A soldier stepped forward. A second later, a red
flare shot up into the night. With a pop, the flare ignited. All eyes turned skyward.

  Muller let out a long, held breath when, like an owl diving down on its prey, he saw a light aircraft dive out of the night sky. Known for its short takeoff and landing abilities, the unique plane miraculously landed on the road directly in front of the palace without hitting any of the wreckage littering the path. It quickly slowed to a crawl, turned about, and with its engine still running; it stood ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

  Muller ran over to the plane and opened the pilot’s-side door. He was relieved when he saw Julie Schrader sitting behind the controls. “Did you have any trouble finding us?”

  “It was touch and go for a few minutes, but once I got my bearings, it was a piece of cake,” she replied. “How about you? Bump into any Ivans?”

  “One or two,” he replied. Muller turned around and ordered his men to load the crates into the back of the plane.

  Schrader watched as the soldiers carefully placed the boxes inside her aircraft. “How much does all of this weigh?” she asked Muller.

  “I think all together it should not be more than two hundred kilos. You should have no problem taking off with the extra weight.”

  “Taking off isn’t the problem,” replied Schrader. “It’s the loss of range that worries me. I should be okay, but if our forces keep pulling back to the west, I could find myself being forced to land on an airstrip overrun by the Soviets.”

  Muller patted his friend’s leather-gloved hand. “Julie, you’re the best pilot I know. You’ll make it.”

  As soon as the last box was loaded aboard, Muller touched Schrader’s cheek with his fingertips. He so wanted to kiss her one last time but resisted the urge. “I’ll see you in Berchtesgaden.” He knew deep down they were only words said to comfort her. Muller hesitated for a moment and looked into the eyes of his lover, wondering if he would ever see her again. With a heavy heart, he closed the pilot’s-side door and stepped back from the plane.

  Schrader fought back the burn of tears and focused all of her attention on getting out of the city alive. She knew that she only had one chance to escape. If the plane was too heavy, she would never get airborne. She took a deep breath and applied full power to the aircraft’s engine. It slowly rolled forward, quickly picking up speed. The buildings in the distance grew large as she closed in on them. When she judged that she had enough speed, Schrader pulled back hard on the joystick. The plane leaped up into the sky, missing the buildings at the end of the street by meters. Bright-red tracers arced up from several Soviet anti-aircraft machine guns as they tried to bring down the aircraft, but Julie triumphed as the plane climbed higher into the night.

  Muller smiled as Schrader’s plane flew up into the clouds and vanished from sight. At least she, and what she’s carrying, got away. The war may have been lost, but the future was not. He turned to face the group of young soldiers with him. “Men, you have fought loyally for Germany. There is no need for any of you to throw your lives away defending Vienna. It will fall in the next couple of days. You all know that the Russians don’t take SS soldiers prisoner. I absolve you of your oath of loyalty to the Reich. Head west and try to link up with our forces still resisting the Bolsheviks.”

  There was a moment of silence. A corporal stepped forward and said, “Sir, we are with you. Where you go, we will follow.”

  Muller’s heart swelled with pride. “Okay then, Corporal Vogler, have the men remove all the SS insignia from their uniforms, and have them stockpile as much food, water and ammunition as they can find. I want us to be as far away from the capital as we can before the sun comes up. It’s a long walk to Berchtesgaden from here.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Vogler, as he turned to pass on Muller’s orders.

  Muller, a fiercely loyal Nazi, had been chosen to help his fellow Nazis escape prosecution from the vengeful allies. Now that Schrader had departed safely with the crates, Muller’s part in the operation was over. His mind turned to his mother and father, trapped in Berlin. Even if he made it through the Soviet lines, he knew that he would probably never be allowed to see his parents ever again.

  “We’re ready, sir,” reported Vogler.

  Muller nodded his head. He bent down, picked up his small pack and slipped it on his back. “Lead on, Corporal.”

  Silently, the small group of men began their long trek. It would be incredibly difficult to slip through the ever-tightening Russian lines, but they had been in tight spots before and always managed to escape. This time, however, it would take a miracle and those were in short order for the SS.

  2

  Present day

  Brussels, Belgium

  Colonel Ercan Alasya placed his forage cap on his head and took one last look at himself in the mirror, a perfectionist as usual. Everything was where it should be on his neatly pressed uniform. He stepped outside of his home and took a deep breath of fresh air, turning his head toward the cloudless sky. It looked like it was going to be a pleasant day. A lifelong bachelor, Alasya was one of several Turkish colonels assigned to NATO Headquarters. His modest apartment was in walking distance from his office.

  “Good morning, Colonel,” said his landlady. She was returning from the shops, a couple of full grocery bags in her hands.

  “A good morning to you, too, Madame Gris,” replied Alasya in French. He was fluent in several languages, which made him a natural fit for the multi-national organization. “You’re up early.”

  “I have company coming over later this morning and wanted to treat them to some croissants and coffee.”

  Alasya tipped his cap to Madame Gris and carried on his way. It was a ten-minute walk that allowed him to collect his thoughts before beginning his day as a member of the alliance’s intelligence planning staff. It wasn’t exciting work, but with tensions flaring up again between his country and its neighbor, Greece, his day would be consumed looking at reports from the troubled region. His struggle would be to remain objective and not allow his personal feelings to come into play when he and his staff presented their findings to his boss, a no-nonsense Danish general.

  As was his usual routine, he stopped at a local shop right near the front gates to buy a paper. He slipped the paper under his arm and continued on, never hearing or seeing the man that walked up behind him. The assassin pulled a silenced pistol out from underneath his jacket and fire it twice at point-blank range into the colonel’s skull, killing him. His dead body crumpled to the ground.

  A woman on the street who witnessed the attack screamed in terror when she saw the dark-red blood pooling on the gray cement sidewalk.

  The murderer, his face covered by a ski mask, dove inside a parked car that sat nearby With a loud squeal from its tires, the sedan sped off down the street.

  Within minutes, police from all over Belguim were racing to set up roadblocks all around the capital in an attempt to apprehend the murderer. It was a wasted effort. The killer and his accomplices had already flown out of the city, lost in a sea of other travelers, and having hidden the car in a rented garage.

  Before the end of the day, the Turkish government, incensed by the murder of one of its officers, was pointing fingers accusingly at Greece. An already-tense situation was deteriorating fast. Some pundits openly speculated about when war would begin, plunging the Aegean into chaos.

  3

  Fairway Lodge,

  Mount Hood, Oregon

  Nestled on the side of Mount Hood in the picturesque Cascade Mountain Range, sat the Fairway Lodge, a private resort owned by the Fairway family. Built during the Great Depression, the resort was designed to look like a Swiss ski chalet, with a tall, sloped roof and dark-stained wooden exterior. With eight spacious bedrooms spread out over three floors, the lodge was rarely empty during the busy winter skiing season. Although recently modernized to include a hot tub, games room, and gym, the building still outwardly looked the same as the day it was finished. However, for this weekend in late June, it was home to a
private conference on the growing tensions between Greece and Turkey.

  Hosted by Doris Fairway, the guests were all women who were all experts in international law. Mrs. Fairway, a retired U.S. Ambassador, hoped that by engaging women from both nations that they might be able to find a peaceful solution to the looming crisis. Together, they planned to present their proposals to their respective nations’ governments.

  The keynote speaker for the day was Mrs. Elena Milos, the widow of a popular Greek politician who had died the previous year in a car accident on his way to work. Extremely photogenic and articulate, Elena Milos was at the forefront of a growing movement to address Greece’s concerns using diplomacy instead of confrontation. In a recent statewide poll, Elena had been voted the most popular and trusted person in the country by a wide margin. A whisper campaign to get her to run for political office was in the works.

  A beautiful woman in her early forties, Elena Milos was dressed in a dark-blue, thigh-length dress. The only jewelry she wore was a long strand of pearls around her slender neck; a Christmas gift from her murdered husband. She had short, jet-black hair with a thin face, and alluring, mahogany-colored eyes.

  Elena was on a tight schedule. Once she had finished speaking at the lodge, she would be flying on to Washington D.C., where she was to meet with several of President Kempt’s closest advisers. After that, she was heading to Ottawa, Canada to meet with Canadian officials who had offered their help in trying to avoid war.

  At the back of the lodge’s spacious living room, Ryan Mitchell let out a deep sigh and glanced down at his watch. He saw that Elena’s speech was due to wrap up in about ten minutes. That was, if she didn’t take too many questions from the other women in the room.