Black Axe: Code Name: Intrepid, #3

By Robert J. Mendenhall

June 1934. Rick Justice and Intrepid search western Europe for an ancient weapon with magical properties: the enigmatic Black Axe. But they're not the only ones on the hunt and Intrepid must race against time to find the deadly axe before their shadowy adversaries do. A new member joins the team, two lost loves are reunited, and fierce internal conflicts erupt. For Intrepid, it's a dangerous time. But for Rick Justice—it's his darkest hour.

BLACK AXE. Book Three 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: Dec 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781954678057

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.

Book preview

For Claire

CODE NAME:

INTREPID

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Book 3

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BLACK AXE

CHAPTER 1

Military camp of German Imperial Knights

Near the besieged city of Boulogne, France

Friday, 12 September 1544 A.D. (Old Julian Calendar)

BLAZING TORCHES SURROUNDED the encampment’s perimeter and they, rather than the low-hanging crescent moon, lit the night. A score of raggedly clad Imperial Knights guarded the line, and another score patrolled the forest beyond it. Within the camp, battle-weary soldiers huddled around the main fire as squires tended armor and weapons. The succulent aroma of a roasting wild boar wafted in the night air as another squire turned the rotisserie pole that impaled the carcass.

Gottfried von Berlichingen, known as Götz of the Iron Hand to his followers, walked among his troops. He made conversation with them, consoled them when needed, counseled them when required. He stopped at every wounded man. Some, he knew, would not survive the night.

Few men under his command could find reason not to respect this man. Some had followed him since the German Peasants’ War, decades past. Others had joined him only recently. Götz von Berlichingen was a legend within his ranks and without. Nobles and kings had sought his services, including Albert IV, Duke of Bavaria; Ulrich, Duke of Württemberg; and the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian I. But Berlichingen was not universally beloved. As a former robber baron, he had been excommunicated and imprisoned as often as he had been victorious. Still, he was a man who garnered admiration.

Berlichingen, himself fatigued from the siege, joined the same line as his men, waiting to be fed.

Still won’t go to the front of the line, eh?

Berlichingen turned to face Wolfgang Altmann, his top lieutenant. "Want do you think, Wolf?"

I think, as a cripple, you should get special treatment. Altmann was a heavy man, muscular and thick, with a massive scar that bisected his ruddy face from left brow to right cheek. Not being a knight, he wore a peasant’s garb, as did most of Berlichingen’s troops. But, to him, Altmann was as much as knight as he was.

Berlichingen raised his right arm and shook the metal and leather prosthetic hand strapped to it. A cripple, am I? I can still outfight one such as you.

"Easy, Iron Hand," Altmann said with a wry smile.

Berlichingen dropped his arm, and the appliance that gave him his nickname, to his side. We lost a lot of good men, today. The line slowly moved toward the servers. I’m getting old, Wolf.

You? Never. You’ll die a young man. In battle.

Berlichingen stroked his gray beard with his remaining hand. I’m sixty-four. I should have been dead years ago. If I survive this, it will be my last campaign.

Wha—? What will you do?

Retire to my castle. Spend my final days drinking wine and loving women.

Altmann guffawed. Of course, you will. You’ll be fed grapes by young maidens and host drunken revelries.

The line moved forward. It could happen. Maybe I’ll write an account of my life.

And maybe you’ll get bored and will just find another fight to fight.

I may forget to invite you to my revelries.

When has that ever—

Götz! Götz! a knight called out as he ran toward them.

Berlichingen stepped from the line. What is it, Gerhardt? What has happened?

The knight stopped and caught his breath. I-I was on patrol. I spied a column approaching from the west.

The west? Altmann said. The English?

Gerhardt shook his head. They fly the standard of the Order of Totenkopf.

Berlichingen and Altmann made eye contact, concerned.

The Death’s Head. Do you think it could be Black Axe? Altmann asked.

It would seem so, Berlichingen said. He turned on his heel and marched toward the main fire, Altmann and Gerhardt in his wake.

To arms! Berlichingen called out.

The men, weary as they were, did not hesitate. They pushed themselves to their feet, donned their armor and retrieved their weapons. In minutes, they were formed into ranks.

Berlichingen motioned Gerhardt forward. How long was the column? How many men? What kind of armament?

Small. Perhaps a hundred men. I saw two Culverin cannons and one cart-mounted organ-gun.

Not a lot of fire power, Altmann said. What is he up to?

Berlichingen cradled his prosthetic hand in his good one. Whatever it may be, rest assured it will be treacherous. Deploy the men in a blockade formation; two ranks, shields first.

On it. Altmann spun and quick-stepped to the formation. He issued terse commands and the well-trained force reacted instantly. In less than a minute, a two-deep blockade reinforced the perimeter guards. Altmann trotted back.

Set, he said to Berlichingen.

Now we wait.

The wait was not long. A torch-bearing rider approached the camp, a white banner on full display. The messenger stopped in the open field three hundred meters from the perimeter.

Altmann mounted a steed and cantered toward the rider. He stopped about ten meters from the messenger. State your business.

The messenger, clad in a white tunic bearing the skull and crossbones symbol of the Order of Totenkopf over his armor, heeled his horse into a slow gait and approached Altmann. Sire, I bring greetings from Herr Ludwig von Schwartzer. He wishes a summit with Herr Gottfried von Berlichingen.

For what purpose? Altmann demanded.

I was not provided details, sire, I was only told that that Herr von Schwartzer was most insistent that he meet with Herr von Berlichingen.

Altmann peered at the messenger, unable to see the man’s eyes through the slits in his helmet. I will convey your request to the Iron Hand. You will remain here.

Of course, sire.

Altmann galloped back to camp and Berlichingen met him behind the blockade.

What do you think he wants? Altmann asked.

Who’s to say? Go back and tell his messenger I will meet him in one hour at that spot. He may bring two, but no more and I will do the same.

Götz, is it wise to meet him? The last time didn’t go so well for you.

Berlichingen raised his prosthetic hand, turned it over, and examined it. Nevertheless, he is here, and we need to deal with him in some manner.

Altmann snickered. Well, it’s your funeral.

Sard off. On your way.

Altmann urged his horse around. He returned in several minutes.

Berlichingen adjusted the lay of his tunic over his armor, sheathed his sword, and strapped a dagger to his waist. Pick two of your best men to accompany me, Wolf.

You don’t seriously think I’m letting you go out there without me at your side, do you?

I need you here, not babysitting me out there.

"I don’t trust him. I am not letting you go without me and there’s nothing you can do to keep me back."

Wolf—

Götz, you’ve saved my life more than once. Grab your helmet and let’s find out what this fucker wants with you.

Berlichingen shook his head and relented. You are a stubborn ass.

An hour later, Berlichingen, Altmann, and Gerhardt trotted their horses to the meeting point. Three men perched on horseback waited for them. Two, in full knight armor and tunic, stood behind a third, more imposing figure. His helmet was black as a raven trimmed in crimson. His tunic was coal black, emblazoned with a blood-red skull and crossed bones. He gripped a long poleaxe in both hands. The pole itself was ebony hardwood, polished to a sheen, and etched for gripping. The blade atop it drew one’s attention away from the pole and the man who held it; a black, metal crescent, a fourth as long as the pole, radiating an unearthly iridescence, its cutting edge a sharp ribbon of silver. The air around the blade shimmered whenever it moved.

Berlichingen reined his horse to a stop fifty meters from the Totenkopf Knights and dismounted. Altmann and Gerhardt followed suit and the three cautiously stepped forward.

The Totenkopf Knights got off their horses and advanced. With little more than the length of the pole axe between them, both parties stopped.

Iron Hand, the lead Totenkopf said, his voice deep and as malicious as the blade.

Black Axe, Berlichingen said. I accept your surrender.

The man called Black Axe flipped the poleaxe and drove the spiked top of the pole into the ground. He removed his helmet and cradled it in the crook of his elbow. His tangled hair, as dark as his helmet, gleamed with oil. An unkempt beard framed a scarred face and pitted nose. His eyes were deep-set and resembled dollops of mud on orbs of porridge.

I’m not here to surrender, Götz. I’m here to join forces.

"From what I’ve been told of your forces, Ludwig, you have more mouths to feed than assets to offer."

Looks can be deceiving.

So can intentions.

Schwartzer snickered, a sound not unlike the snort of a horse. We’re both mercenaries. We fight for whomever pays us. I can just as easily seek out other armies.

Berlichingen smiled. Do you think we’ve not heard the stories of your assaults? Or the atrocities you’ve committed with that cursed axe of yours? How it can cleave through rock and bone as if they were smoke?

Schwartzer cocked his head toward Berlichingen’s prosthetic. As you well know, Iron Hand.

Berlichingen grimaced. How many other arms have you chopped off? How many heads have you severed from their bodies?

Schwartzer donned his helmet and pulled his axe from the ground. "Do you remember, Götz, when I cut off your arm, how my blade fused the wound so there was no blood loss from your arm or your severed hand? It’s the same when I behead a man. The head comes off cleanly, the wound at the throat fused tight. Do you understand what that means? There is no blood loss from the brain. It continues to live, sometimes for minutes. Sometimes longer. The head knows that it no longer has a body. It can see and hear, but cannot speak or breathe. But it is aware."

Altmann and Gerhardt stepped closer, flanking Berlichingen, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Schwartzer’s knights matched the move.

Do you wish to intimidate me? Berlichingen said.

Intimidate? No. Schwartzer hefted the poleaxe. You are not a man who is easily intimidated. I wish to join forces with you, add your might to my own, but if you refuse, I will take your army for myself.

I’m not a fool, Schwartzer. If I agree, you’ll kill me the first chance you get. If I refuse—

Then, yes, I will kill you now. Schwartzer twirled the axe. The blade hummed and left a sparkling trail as if it were cleaving the very air around it.

As one, Altmann and Gerhardt drew their swords. Schwartzer’s knights drew theirs.

Berlichingen pulled his sword from his scabbard, flourished it twice and took a ready stance before Schwartzer.

Schwartzer stepped to the side. Berlichingen mirrored the move. The two circled each other without speaking.

Altmann and Gerhardt advanced on the Totenkopf Knights. They engaged.

Schwartzer and Berlichingen ignored their aides. Their focus remained tightly on each other, even as steel struck steel behind them.

Last change, Iron Hand, Schwarzer warned.

Go to hell, Black Axe.

Perhaps I will. But—he raised his axe—not alone! The air screamed as the axe cut a swath through it.

Berlichingen side-stepped, felt the turbulence of the blade a hands-breath from his helmet. He swung his sword and caught Schwartzer in his armored leg. No damage. Schwarzer spun the poleaxe over his head and readied another swing.

Altmann dispatched his opponent in three strokes. Gerhardt took a sword hilt to his helmet and fell on his back. Altmann engaged the remaining knight, defeating him with minimal effort.

The next swing came so close to Berlichingen he tasted metal in the air, smelled the sulfur of the shimmering trail. He tumbled and rolled, dislodging his helmet. He came up as the axe was swinging down on him again. This time he got his sword up to parry, but the axe sliced through the steel with no effort, leaving only a small shard of it at the hilt.

Schwartzer hoisted the axe as if chopping wood and swung it downward at Berlichingen.

Altmann threw himself at Berlichingen and knocked him clear.

The axe took off Altmann’s head above his shoulders.

No! Berlichingen screamed and lunged upward, thrusting the splinter of his sword into Schwartzer’s exposed throat beneath his helmet.

Schwartzer dropped to his knees and the axe fell from his hand. Berlichingen kicked the poleaxe away from Schwartzer, grabbed the hilt of his sword, and ripped it from Schwarzer’s throat with a twist. The man known as Black Axe fell to the ground, his hands unable to stop the gush of blood.

Altmann’s body had fallen where it had been struck, but his head rolled away several meters. Berlichingen knelt before it, cradled it. Wolf! Wolf, you fool!

Altmann’s eyes popped open.

My god! Berlichingen shouted and dropped Altmann’s head. I didn’t believe him, but it’s true. He reached for Altmann’s head again. The eyes followed his movements and locked onto his when Berlichingen lifted the head.

The wound was completely fused, as if seared. No blood spilled from it.

Altmann opened his mouth, but only gurgling noises came forth.

Wolf, Berlichingen whispered. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you come. I should have made you stay back.

Altmann’s eyebrows creased. His lips tightened. He moved his eyes back and forth like he was shaking his head. Then his eyes widened and his mouth hung open.

Berlichingen sat on the ground and held the dying head of his closest and oldest friend. Altmann’s wide eyes seemed to plead to him. Don’t worry, my friend. I won’t leave you. I will stay with you until the end.

It took nearly five minutes for what remained of Wolfgang Altmann to die. Berlichingen eased the eyes closed and stifled the intense rage simmering within him. He stood and carried the head to Schwartzer’s body. The Totenkopf Knight lay lifeless in a pool of his own blood. Berlichingen knelt by Schwartzer’s body and yanked off the ebony helmet. Schwartzer’s dead eyes peeked from half-closed lids.

It should have been your head, the Iron Hand said. "I wish to Holy God it had been your head. I would have happily watched you die. Slowly. Knowing you were suffering the same horror you inflicted on others with that wretched axe of yours."

He spat on Schwartzer’s body.

The bodies of Schwartzer’s knights lay sprawled at odd angles, their own blood puddling beneath them. Berlichingen carried Altmann’s head to his horse, wrapped it in his tunic, and gingerly placed it in the horse’s satchel. He went back for Altmann’s body and hefted it over the back of Altmann’s horse.

It was then he realized something was amiss.

Both Gerhardt and the cursed axe were gone.

CHAPTER 2

Dockside

Potomac River

2025 hours, Thursday, 4 August 1932

THE TRUCK DROVE slowly, without lights, through the shadowy dock areas along the Potomac River. The rays of the setting sun sliced between the tall warehouses, casting angled shadows on the cobblestone roadway. The truck backed into one of those dark spots near an alleyway that led to a fenced-in boathouse. The sign on the fence read United States Government Bureau of Navigation. Boathouse 347. Below that, another sign stated No Trespassing—Authorized Personnel Only.

We’re here, Colonel, the driver said over his shoulder, shifting an unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. He was a short, rotund individual in his late forties and dressed in the khaki uniform of a military man. His voice was gravely, as if perpetually hoarse. His head was hairless, his face round with pronounced cheeks, a slight jowl beneath his jaw, and a handlebar mustache above his mouth. This was Master Sergeant Michael Hammer Downe, United States Army.

The man he addressed leaned in from the truck’s cargo area.

Any sign of activity? he asked. His voice was smooth and deep, projecting authority and controlled power. His head seemed