Code name: Iron Feather 1942

 Cover Reveal and an Excerpt from the newly published WW2 novel by Allan Hudson.

Camp Debert is an army base being built next door to Royal Canadian Air Force Base in Debert, Nova Scotia on the east coast of Canada in 1942. Thousands of thousands of men and women will pass through on their way to Europe. Units will be mustered, weapons handed out and training for war. The contractors are erecting buildings as fast as they can.

The new mess on the army base is partially completed until work stops when the foreman finds a dead body hanging from the rafters. Not a soldier, but an airman.

Everything is hush-hush. The commanding officer has asked for the investigation to be handled by Warrant Officer Stefan Kravchenko of the Air Force Service Police. He’s ordered to Camp Debert, immediately. Upon arrival he discovers the scene is all wrong. The medical examiner suggests it may look like a suicide, but …

Regina Rifles. WW2. Camp Debert, Nova Scotia

An Excerpt.

Berlin. Thursday, June 11th

Gestapo Headquarters. Prinze-Albrecht Strasse.

 

JACARANDA

 

Other than his name and rank, Oberstleutnant Otto Müller, the memo contains only one word. Neat, precise, Germanic. The boldness of the letters emphasizes immediate action. Delivered moments ago by his assistant Stabshauptmann Schulz, the torn envelope now lies upon his desk. The paper he holds is note size, embossed on the top with the Meyer coat-of-arms. Directly from his superior's office upstairs. At present, there are only four people who know of Jacaranda. With his recent promotion he happens to be one of them. It will be his first opportunity to initiate an operation.

Rising from his plush leather seat, he turns to the left of the office where a capacious filing cabinet sits under the Führer's picture. Inherited from his father who was a doctor, the cabinet is made of birch, polished to a yellow gleam. The sole piece of furniture belonging to him. Catching his reflection in the glass, he tips his head so he can see his new haircut again. He likes it short on the top and shorn on the sides. Notices his forehead getting longer, though. Too many wrinkles around the eyes for a man of forty-two. Ignoring them, he slides the top drawer cover up and in, exposing a row of files. The bottom three rows are empty. He's only had the opportunity to start several of his own folders, the others inherited from the previous occupant who now fights on the eastern front. His punishment for Iron Spear going bad. They even lost a submarine in Canadian waters, none of the crew survived. Oberst Jörg Meyer blamed his subordinate entirely. Saved his own neck.

In the folder marked Agent Jacaranda is one sheet of paper. It reads:

 

Klaus Schroder

Age: 48    DOB: 11/17/1893

Father: Wilhelm, deceased 1918. Mother: Adalee Baumann, deceased 1918. Both war casualties from allied invasion of Germany. One sibling, Roburts – serving Wehrmacht.

Eyes: Blue    Hair: Light brown    Hgt: 1.8 meters/5 ft. 11''    Wgt: 88.45k/195lbs

Alias: Samuel Thomas (Tommy) Wright

Code Name: Jacaranda

Placement: Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada Secondary: Debert, Nova Scotia, Canada

Recruited: February 1938

Date of Dispatch: December 1938

Profession:   Recent: Heavy Equipment Operator

              Former: Construction Worker

Decorated soldier. Served in German Imperial Army 3rd Engineer Battalion 25 Corps. 1915 - 1918

 

Laying the paper on his desk, he sits and reaches for his own notepad. Unadorned, simple blue lines. On it he prints:

 

To: Iron Feather. ACTIVATE JACARANDA. ASAP. Details on first target to follow.

 

Reaching for his intercom, he presses a large black button. It's followed by a hiss and a weak voice.

"Ja, Oberstleutnant?"

"Come to my office at once, Alfons."

"Ja, Oberstleutnant."

Twenty seconds later a skinny man enters, not tall enough to meet the minimum requirements for field duty, but with his attention to detail and above average IQ, he is invaluable as a staff member. A pointy chin confirms a V-shaped face. The black-framed glasses appear too big for his pert nose. Not one to give in to his mousey features, his demeanour is one of efficiency and business.

"Ja, Oberstleutnant."

Müller passes him the folded note.

"Take this to Communications. A message to Unterseeboot 501. It will surface somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean at midnight local time. Tell them to be sure this message reaches our agent in Nova Scotia."

"Is that all, sir?"

"Ja, do it right away."

"Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler"

Schulz is off like he has diarrhea. Müller swings around in his chair, smug from having an assistant at his command, when mere months ago he was the assistant. With pursed lips and tented fingers before him, he stares at the photo. The scowl, the bangs diagonally across the man's brow, the shadows under the eyelids and the shadow moustache under the nose makes him look formidable with crossed arms and a penetrating stare. He shivers at the man's power emanating from the image. Seeking his own glory, he speaks to the empty office.

"No one threatens the Third Reich. No one!"

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