First Case: Code Name: Intrepid, #1

By Robert J. Mendenhall

January 1932. When the mutated corpse of a Federal agent turns out to be his childhood friend, Major Rick Justice, U.S. Army Air Corps, confronts a shadow group of foreign agents that has created and unleashed monstrous creatures, amalgams of rock and ice and human beings. Justice is caught in conflicts at the highest levels of the military as he struggles to stop the evil plot to discredit the United States and murder innocent civilians. In his fight, he reunites with comrades from the Great War, cultivates a team of highly-trained military fighters, and draws on the skills of remarkable civilians. But for Justice and his new-found allies, time is running out.

In the pulp tradition of Doc Savage, the Shadow, and the Avenger. FIRST CASE. Book one in the Code Name: Intrepid adventure series. The nation turns to Intrepid, because extraordinary threats require extraordinary measures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Planet Press, LLC
• Release date: Aug 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781954678071

Robert J. Mendenhall

Robert J. Mendenhall is retired Air Force, a retired police officer, and a former broadcast journalist for the American Forces Network, Europe. A member of Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, Mystery Writers of America, Short Mystery Fiction Society, and International Association of Media Tie-in Writers, he writes across genres including science fiction, adventure, crime and suspense, and the occasional horror. He currenty writes the pulp action and adventure series Code Name: Intrepid. He lives in Southwest Michigan with his wife and fellow writer, Claire. And many animals. So... many... animals.

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DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my wife and fellow writer, Claire, for her encouragement, understanding, and resilience during my long hours hunched over the keyboard, and to my children, Kara, Kristy, and Tom for their years of support, and finally, to my grandchildren, Brayden, Hadley, and Jocelyn, because they are AWESOME!

CODE NAME:

INTREPID

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Book 1

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FIRST CASE

CHAPTER 1

S.S. Europa, out of Bremerhaven, Germany

North Atlantic Ocean

2300 hours, Friday, 20 November 1931

THE NORTH ATLANTIC wind blew icy spray against the bow of the passenger liner as it steamed westward toward the coast of the United States, some six hundred nautical miles distant. The ocean was choppy, as if angry at the intrusion of the ship across its surface, but the S.S. Europa rode the swells with a defiant grace. The night sky was cloudless, the stars abundant and bright. The salty smell of the ocean, pervasive.

The man with the monocle stood at the rail on the top deck at the ship’s stern, ignoring the celestial panorama, instead taking in the wake turbulence of the Europa’s twin screws. He clutched the rail with one leather-gloved hand and held a cigarette holder in the other. The collar of his ebony trench coat, flattened against his head by the wind, obscured his features. He brought the cigarette holder to his lips in a smooth, calculated motion and drew a long puff that roused the lit end into glowing embers, briefly illuminating his face in fiery angles and deep shadows. He exhaled a shaft of smoke. The aroma of fine German tobacco lingered only briefly until lost to the wind.

The man with the monocle didn’t turn at the first signs of a struggle in the stairwell behind him. Instead, he twisted his thin lips into a crooked smile of satisfaction. He could hear the muffled wails of protest, the scuffle of futile resistance. He smiled and watched the ocean churn below him.

The double doors of the stairwell crashed outward. Four men barreled through. Two of these grappled with a third, gagged with his hands bound behind his back. The bound man thrashed, cursing through the wad of material stuffed into his mouth. The fourth man smashed the butt of his submachine gun into the bound man’s back and he dropped to his knees behind the man with the monocle. A boot landed between the bound man’s shoulder blades, and he fell face-first onto the wooden deck.

Schweinehund, said the man with the submachine gun in German.

Nein, the man with the monocle said, his high, tenor voice raised over the rush of wind. He turned from the rail. Ihn aufrichten. [Raise him up.]

Hoisted by his armpits, the bound man stifled a cry of pain and stood on shaky legs. He glared at the man with the monocle.

[Remove the cloth from his mouth.]

The fourth man slung his weapon over his shoulder and untied the strip of material that encircled the bound man’s face. He pulled a wadded kerchief from the captive’s mouth and slapped the back of his head with a flourish.

[Enough,] said the man with the monocle as he approached the bound man. So, who do we have here? His heavily accented English was precise.

The bound man, his face bloody, one eye puffed shut, glared with his open eye. Who are you? How dare you kidnap me. I’m an American citizen. You have no right—

You are on a German vessel and under the jurisdiction and authority of the Weimar Republic. You have no rights here.

I demand to see the captain.

You are in no position to be making demands.

The bound man twisted futilely in the grasp of the two Germans restraining him. Who are you?

Who I am is not important. Who you are, however, is the question. What is your name?

I’m not telling you anything.

A knuckle punch to his kidney nearly toppled the bound man.

Your name, the man with the monocle repeated.

Screw you.

Another kidney punch and the bound man’s knees buckled. He would have crumpled to the deck had his arms not been held by the two Germans.

This is pointless. At my order, Friedrich will pound away at your body until your organs no longer function. Or you can tell me your name and the beating will stop.

The bound man shook his head.

As you wish. In German he said, [Friedrich, you may continue.]

The fourth man, Friedrich, let out a chuckle that dripped malice.

W-wait, the bound man said weakly.

The man with the monocle held up his gloved hand.

Scheisse, Friedrich swore.

Your name, he said once more.

My name is John Smith.

The man with the monocle smiled, his lips a tight line. Is that a fact, Mr. Smith?

Y-yes. My passport is in my jacket pocket.

After a rough search of the jacket, Friedrich produced an American passport and handed it to the man with the monocle.

What have we here? Yes, this is your photograph. Issued to John Smith, yes. Duly stamped by your State Department. And properly issued by Mr. R. S. Shipley, Chief of Passport Division. He thumbed through the pages. And, I see, German entrance and exit stamps. All appears to be in order, Mr. Smith.

The bound man went slack and let out a breath.

Friedrich handed the man with the monocle a zippered pouch. [We found these in his cabin.]

The man with the monocle bit down on his cigarette holder and tossed the passport over the rail. He took the pouch and removed another American passport and a leather-bound identification wallet. What have we here?

Inside the folding wallet, he found an identification card tucked behind a scuffed cellophane sleeve on the top section. Pinned to the bottom part of the wallet was a gold-colored badge embossed with the words BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION U. S. DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE.

The man with the monocle glanced at the bound man. Bureau of Investigation? My.

The bound man tensed.

The man with the monocle opened the second passport, scanning the pages. I don’t see an entrance stamp here. Or an exit stamp, Mr. Smith. But that isn’t your real name. The man with the monocle closed the passport without looking at the identity page and tossed it over the rail. Is it, now? Agent Benjamin Fischer.

The bound man’s good eye widened. You already knew. How did you know?

The man with the monocle smiled again, this time a wider gash. I have eyes and ears where you would least expect them, Herr Fischer. Ahh, what is this? He removed a small, sepia-tinged photograph from behind the identification card.

You son of a bitch... Fischer said.

Not quite. But this is a striking woman. Your wife? I don’t see a wedding band on your finger, so your girlfriend, perhaps? He tucked the photograph behind the identification card and pitched the wallet over the side.

The wallet opened in the wind, exposing the badge as it tumbled into the North Atlantic.

Tell me this, Agent Fischer. What do you know? And who have you told?

About what? I don’t know anything.

Friedrich grabbed a handful of Fischer’s hair and yanked back. Fischer’s cry cut off as his trachea compressed. The other two men released Fischer’s arms.

Friedrich would like nothing better than to beat you until your bones splintered and your organs pulped into jelly, the monocled man said.

Friedrich leaned his face close to Fischer’s, so close the stench of sauerkraut vented from the German’s open-mouth grin. Fischer’s good eye watered.

But we are civilized men, are we not Agent Fischer? You know what I want. Information. I know what you don’t want. A painful death.

You can go fuck yourself, Fischer managed to squeak out. Friedrich canted Fischer’s neck back even farther.

Very well, I will make the first gesture. Release him, Friedrich.

[But, Herr Sonderführer. He is of no use to us. ]

Schnell. The order was sharp and clear. Friedrich released Fischer with a shove. The agent fell to his hands and knees, gasping loudly.

There, do you see, Agent Fischer? Now, it is your turn. Why are you here?

Fischer stood and coughed. He kneaded his throat. Sonderführer? he said to the man with the monocle. Special leader of what?

Ah, you speak German. No matter. I will ask you again. Why are you here?

I was on vacation in—

With a fraudulent passport?

Fischer shook his head and looked around, as if answers were hidden somewhere nearby. So, why is this ship so empty? I know that crossing the Atlantic Ocean in the dead of winter isn’t very popular, but how can the Lloyd line afford to send a half-empty passenger liner clear across the ocean? I mean, they have to be taking a heavy financial loss.

They are being subsidized.

Fischer nodded. By the Weimar Republic? I doubt that.

That is no concern of yours.

I thought we were going to share information.

No. I said I wanted information and you did not want to die painfully.

Fischer paused. I don’t want to die at all, but I’m not going to tell you anything.

Tell me about your assignment.

What assignment? I’m on vacation.

"Yes, of course. On vacation. And you did not arrive in Germany two months ago on the S.S. Bremen? You were not in Germany to gather intelligence? To spy on the Weimar Republic? Or the Nazi Party? You did none of these things. Is that what you are saying?"

Fischer squirmed. Where did you get that idea?

As I said, I have eyes and ears everywhere. Even in the United States, Agent Fischer.

Fischer paled.

Ah, at last you understand. The Sonderführer nodded, and the first two Germans grabbed Fischer by the arms. Fischer struggled until Friedrich grabbed his neck from behind in a massive grip. And squeezed.

[Not too tightly, Friedrich. He needs to be alive for this.]

Ja wohl, Herr Sonderführer.

Fischer reached over his shoulders, desperately trying to grab Friedrich’s hand, unable to achieve the slightest grip.

The Sonderführer walked away from the rail to a wooden crate resting near the bulkhead.

One of the Germans went to a fire hose coiled on the same bulkhead and began to unspool the hose. He stopped several yards from Fischer. The other stood near the faucet crank.

The Sonderführer shifted straw inside the crate and removed a translucent, glass globe from the chest. The globe was easily a foot in diameter and a purplish vapor swirled inside it. He carried it to Fischer with careful, measured footsteps and halted several yards away.

Fischer’s open eye darted between the globe and the hose.

I could take this opportunity to satiate my malevolent ego and explain to you what this is, Agent Fischer. And what it will do to you. But in reality, I have no ego to satisfy and no need to explain anything to you. I am single-minded in purpose and committed to my cause.

And what cause is that?

The Sonderführer angled his head in such a way that his monocle caught the stars, absorbed their light, and reflected it, making it appear as if that one eye glowed with its own brilliance.

Why, world dominance of course.

With you as the king of the— Friedrich tightened his grip on Fischer’s neck, choking off the last word.

Not I, Agent Fischer. I am but the herald of the one to come. And coming he is.

Who? The... devil?

The Sonderführer chuckled. I am sure he will be called that one day.

With a nod from the Sonderführer, Friedrich released Fischer and kicked him to the deck.

The Bureau of Investigation agent fell to his knees.

A frigid jet of water from the fire hose struck him and soaked him. His hair and clothing instantly iced.

The Sonderführer lobbed the globe toward Fischer. It shattered at his feet and enveloped him in lavender gas.

Fischer screamed as the gas gelled, coating him in a malleable material that seared his skin and jellied his eyes. A second volley of water from the fire hose interacted with the material, causing it to harden.

Mein Gott, Friedrich uttered.

The Sonderführer bit on his cigarette holder and watched the transformation passively. Only the occasional flare of his cigarette showed he still breathed.

What was once Agent Benjamin Fischer roared, its anguish careening across the open sea.

The creature slowly rose. It was shaped roughly like a man, though its features were wickedly exaggerated and grotesquely misshapen. Its body was encased in a jagged covering, an amalgam of ice and rock. It moved awkwardly, as if unfamiliar with its own frame. The shadows of a human face, a face in torment, could be seen beneath the material. The creature lumbered forward on stout, stiff legs.

Halt, the Sonderführer commanded.

The creature stopped.

[I think it works!] Friedrich exclaimed.

The creature moved toward Friedrich, raised its arm of ice and rock, and slammed its fist down on Friedrich’s head like a sledgehammer. The German’s scream cut off as his skull ruptured open.

The creature turned on the Sonderführer, reached for him. The material continued its transformation, solidifying over Fischer’s body until it was as rigid as a beam. It stopped in mid-step, teetering on one leg. On the rise of a wave, it tumbled to the wooden deck with a crash.

Scheisse, the Sonderführer swore.

The remaining two Germans stood with wide eyes. Their rapid breathing frosted the air about their faces.

[Pitch them over the side,] the Sonderführer instructed them. As he watched them lift and heave Friedrich’s corpse over the rail, he removed the cigarette from its holder. He dropped the smoldering butt to the deck and ground it out with his boot, unconcerned for the burn mark it left on the polished wood. The remaining two Germans removed a section of rail at the stern and inched the creature across the deck and over the side. What was once Ben Fischer of the United States Bureau of Investigation, plummeted into the choppy waters of the North Atlantic.

CHAPTER 2

In the air

Approaching Langley Field, Virginia

1330 hours, Tuesday, 12 January 1932

FIVE THOUSAND FEET above the ground, a Douglas O-25 open-cockpit, bi-wing airplane tore through the air at a near-impossible 162 miles per hour. The Virginia countryside slid smoothly below the speeding aircraft, the open fields a patchwork of brown and unseasonably green grass. The pilot jerked the yoke back and the Douglas arched sharply upward, gaining altitude and speed even as the angle of ascent exceeded forty-five degrees above the horizon. The aircraft’s six hundred horsepower Curtis in-line engine whined.

Speed: 162.2 miles per hour.

Altitude: 5150 feet.

Angle of ascent: 58 degrees and climbing.

Justice, you son of a bitch! shouted the passenger in the second seat directly behind the pilot.

The pilot grinned broadly and ignored him.

One hundred sixty-two point seven miles per hour.

Fifty-three hundred feet.

Justice! The passenger vice-gripped the lip of the cockpit.

One hundred sixty-three.

Fifty-five hundred.

Christ, Justice! You’re way past the red line! The O-25 wasn’t built for this!

The pilot’s eyes glinted behind the lenses of his flight goggles. His teeth gleamed from behind his wide smile. His wool scarf flapped behind him. He canted his head toward the rear seat.

Relax, Walt, Justice called out. She can take it!

Major Walter Ballard leaned closer to Justice’s ear. I’m telling you, this plane was built for observation, not your rodeo acrobatics.

Justice laughed. How would you know? You’re not even an aviator.

The hell I’m not. I run the Air Corps Tactical School and we use the O-25s all the time. And I outrank you by a day. So, Major Justice, throttle back and level off!

All right, Major Ballard. Justice eased back on the throttle and guided the yoke forward. After adjusting the rudder and tail elevators, the O-25 settled into a westerly course at six thousand feet, cruising at 125 miles per hour.

That was bonkers, Rick, Ballard shouted. The Curtis V-1570 can’t generate enough rpm to reach 162 miles an hour. The engine should have exploded.

One hundred sixty-three point one, Justice corrected.

I’m telling you. It can’t do it.

And yet it did.

Ah, Ballard muttered. I get it. Hammer Downe. You’ve got Hammer Downe, don’t you?

"He’s the best engine mechanic in the