Case Violet: Code Name: Intrepid, #5

By Robert J. Mendenhall

May 1935. From the icy shore of Greenland to the lush rain forest of Brazil, Rick Justice and Intrepid are hot on the trail of a Nazi organization creating a gruesome superweapon capable of inflicting unimaginable suffering and a slow, grizzly death. But each time the team closes in on them, the villains escape. All signs point to the deployment of the weapon against Americans on U.S. soil. But where? And when? Unless Intrepid can find a way to neutralize the threat in time, tens of thousands will face an agonizing end.

CASE VIOLET. Book 5 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 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781954678170

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

CASE VIOLET

Code Name: Intrepid Book #5

Robert J. Mendenhall

Blue Planet Press, LLC

Contents

Title Page

COPYRIGHT

CODE NAME:

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

BONUS!

SCARLET REUNION

About the Author

About Code Name: Intrepid

Also by Robert J. Mendenhall

And Coming Soon From

COPYRIGHT

CASE VIOLET ©2023 Robert J. Mendenhall. All rights reserved.

Code Name: Intrepid® is a trademark registered to Robert J. Mendenhall and Blue Planet Press, LLC.

Covert Art by Ron Randall Art. Cover Design by Blue Planet Press, LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Blue Planet Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information or permission, contact Blue Planet Press, LLC via email at [e-mail].

This is a work of fiction. The characters of Harry Hines Woodring, George H. Dern, US Navy Captain William D. Puleston, and Reinhard Heydrich are historical figures. The resemblance of any other character in this book to a real person is coincidental.

ISBN-13 9781954678170

First Printing, August 2023

CODE NAME:

INTREPID

Book 5

CASE VIOLET

CHAPTER 1

Ivigtut cryolite mine, near the town of Ivittuut

235 miles southeast of Nuuk, Greenland

1455 hours, Tuesday, 28 May 1935

T

HE ACTIVITY OUTSIDE the mine below had taken an ominous but welcome turn. Lieutenant Andrew Garrity, Office of Naval Intelligence, lowered his binoculars and made notes on his pad, already heavy with dates, times, and ore movements. He had been observing the mine for the past three weeks, enduring swings in temperature that had him shivering then sweating in his caribou fur parka. It was a balmy thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit now, under a subarctic sun that had been shining for twelve hours and would be out for seven more.

The relentless monotony of the surveillance made him question the accuracy of the intel he had received. He’d observed nothing but routine work; ore cars moving on rails from the mine to the process and separation area, where the raw ore was loaded into containers and staged for later transport via steamship.

But today was the payoff. The anomaly in the routine he had been waiting for. Ore cars were going directly to the dock, bypassing the holding area. A cargo ship lay anchored there. He watched the ore being winched, car and all, into the cargo hold of the vessel.

While this was occurring, the station personnel, mostly indigenous Greenlanders in anorak parkas, were gathered into a group away from the dock. Garrity trained his field glasses on the them, specifically on the four men in black coats that circled it. They carried submachine guns across their chests and occasionally pointed them in the direction of the Greenlanders. The station personnel seemed accustomed to the situation.

Other men in black coats operated the winches. Still more men in black received the ore cars and guided them into the ship’s cargo holds. Empty cars were then lifted out and deposited on the dock.

The entire process went by quickly and efficiently. When the ship was loaded, all the men in black coats boarded and it steamed into the Davis Strait on its way to the Labrador Sea. The station personnel resumed their work as if nothing had happened.

Garrity focused his binoculars on the ship, noting a Brazilian flag and the faded name of the vessel on the port bow: Jaguaribe. He recorded the information on his pad and stuffed it into the pocket of his parka. Based on the past activity he had observed, he wasn’t expecting anything else of importance to occur and he prepared to head back to his hidden seaplane a mile northeast of the mining town on the Arsuk Fjord.

Until he saw another man in a black coat exit one of the shacks surrounding the mine.

Garrity hunkered down and brought his field glasses up. He’d assumed all these men left on the Jaguaribe.

The man’s hood was off, and Garrity could see his head and face. Square-shaped, light-skinned with blond hair; atypical of the indigenous Greenlanders or the Danes who claimed sovereignty. A submachine gun hung from his shoulder. There was something about this man in black that troubled him. Something familiar.

Garrity rolled onto his side, reached under his parka, and pulled out his Smith & Wesson .45 pistol. He eased the slide back enough to see there was a round in the chamber, thumbed the safety off, and slipped the pistol into the pocket of his parka so it would be readily available if needed.

Garrity’s parka matched what many of the Greenlandic Inuit population wore, tan, brown, and white caribou fur. This had been a deliberate choice on his part, because, even though he exercised extreme caution not to be seen, if he was, he wanted to be mistaken for a native.

The man in the black coat lit a cigarette and blew a long ribbon of smoke into the air.

Garrity made his way down the rocky slope to ground level and integrated himself with the station personnel who were moving the empty rail cars back onto the tracks. Garrity was a tall man and slouched to reduce his height more akin to the Greenlanders. A shovel had been discarded nearby and he scooped it up. With it on his shoulder, he moved toward the man in the black parka.

A second man came out of the shack, this one without a coat. Like the first man, he was tall and burly, but with slightly darker hair and a square toothbrush mustache beneath his aquiline nose in the style Adolph Hitler wore. His uniform was ebony, with glossy black leather piping down the outside of both legs. A similar stripe of leather crossed his body in a diagonal attached to a black gun belt in the front and, presumably, in the back. The pocket flaps and shoulder epaulets were of the same material. Oddly, the butt end of a pistol protruded from the flap of a holster on his left side, in such a way the weapon would be drawn with his right hand from across his torso, rather than from the right hip. At the second man’s approach, the first man dropped his cigarette and snapped to a sloppy position of attention.

Garrity gave the two men a wide berth, circling behind them, but keeping a sideways eye on them. Clearly, he thought, the second man was a leader. Possibly the commander of whatever was going on here. But, more importantly, Garrity recognized the uniforms.

Sonderstaffel. Hitler’s Special Squadron, the Nazi organization he had heard about, though had never come in direct contact with. But he knew their mission: exploit fringe science, the occult, and the supernatural to develop superweapons and monster soldiers.

This changed the game. Garrity needed to get this new development back to his superiors at the Office of Naval Intelligence and the War Department’s Office of Special Actions at once. This would be a job for—

Halt! the second man shouted at him.

Garrity ignored the command and kept walking. He slouched a bit more and positioned the shovel on his shoulder to obscure his features.

Hör sofort auf! the second man commanded. [Stop at once!]

Garrity picked up his pace. The two Sonderstaffel men started toward him. The first man unslung his submachine gun. The second drew his pistol.

Ahead of him, Garrity spotted a row of shacks. He headed toward them.

Bleib wo du bist oder wir schießen! [Stay where you are or we will shoot!]

Garrity spoke German; he understood what the second man was saying to him. A native Greenlander probably wouldn’t, so he continued.

A single shot rang out and a geyser of dirt erupted near Garrity’s feet. He ignored it and went around the back of the shacks. He opened the door to the first shack and left it ajar, then bolted for the second shack. He slipped inside and left it partially open, peering through the tiny crack.

The two Sonderstaffel men came around the back of the first shack.

[Here.] the second man said, pointing to the open door. He yanked it wide and the two men darted inside.

Garrity ran out of the second shack, leaving that door open, and bolted for the third shack. He opened that door, but this time he didn’t go inside. He circled the shack and flattened himself against the siding, gripping his shovel tightly.

The two men ran out of the shack, the second man in the lead. As soon as he had passed the narrow space between the shacks, Garrity swung the shovel like a baseball bat, catching the man in the black coat in the face with the flat of the blade. It knocked him to the ground, unconscious, blood gushing from his nose. Garrity kicked the submachine gun out of reach.

The second man came out. [Schmidt! Schmidt! Where the hell are—]

Garrity stepped over the fallen man and came around the corner, swinging the shovel. The second man went down. Garrity kicked the loose pistol out of reach and took off running.

He made it to the rocks and climbed to his perch, put his pistol and notebook in a watertight bag, and stuffed that into his pack. What he needed now was make it to his seaplane and get back to Washington. With any luck, he had dispatched the two Sonderstaffel men without being recognized as an American.

This part of Greenland was mostly rocky terrain with massive ice sheets extending over the island to the countless number of fjords that jutted into it from open water. The going was rough. Twice he slipped, jamming his hand and ripping a gash in his leg.

Halt! The command was distant but clear.

Shit.

Garrity skidded to a stop at the cliff edge overlooking the fjord. The water was less than fifty feet below. His seaplane was upriver only a hundred yards away. The wind was blowing northeast to southwest which, if remembered his fjord water mechanics, meant the current would be in that same direction—away from his plane.

His timing would have to be precise if he was going to get out of this. He knelt and waited until he heard the men getting closer. When they were just outside shooting distance he stood, his back to them.

Halt!

His intent had been to let them get a round off, feign being shot, then fall into the fjord.

The first shot missed. He tossed out his arms and started his fall.

The second shot clipped him in the shoulder.

The impact of the bullet threw him off balance and he tumbled in midair. Instead of slicing into the water cleanly, he hit on his back. Hard. The impact nearly shocked him unconscious.

He bobbed to the surface and sucked in air, gagging and coughing water.

More gunshots from above, these rapid-fire like they were shot from a machine gun. He filled his lungs and dove back under, desperately trying to ignore the pain from his wounds and the biting cold of the water.

Garrity yanked his pack off, then squirmed out of his parka and let it rise to the surface. Bullets tore into it. The parka floated downstream toward the town. He held himself against the rock wall and stayed under until he nearly passed out. Finally, he eased himself to the surface and let his face break the water. He gulped air ravenously.

The two Sonderstaffel men were no longer at the top, and Garrity’s parka had floated out of sight.

Relief washed over him and it was then the adrenaline that had kept him going began to dissipate. He grimaced at the intense pain in his shoulder from the shot and his leg from the gash. He shivered so hard in the frigid water, the rest of his body ached.

Awkwardly, he paddled upstream in slow, agonizing strokes. His vision blurred. The fingers on each hand went numb. He had no feeling in the rest of his body except the blazing fire in his shoulder.

The seaplane was where he had concealed it, around a bend in the fjord and under an outcrop of rock. He collapsed on one of the pontoons and lay there for an indeterminate amount of time. The bullet wound throbbed and, in his foggy mind, he wondered how much blood he had lost. The freezing water, at least, had lowered his heart rate and slowed the blood flow.

Garrity pulled himself up and into the plane. The cabin was cold, but windless. He dropped the pack and stripped out of his wet clothing, trembling spastically. Blood from his wounds began flowing again as he staggered to the first aid kit at the back of the cabin. Gauze roll. Antiseptic. Sterile pad. Tape. He pulled them out and dropped them onto the sleeping bag. He collapsed to his knees, fighting the creep of fatigue.

He poured the antiseptic over the bullet wound.

S-shit!

He set the sterile pad and wrapped it as best he could with one arm. The tape job was sloppy and did little to hold the gauze together, but the bleeding had slowed. He did the same to his leg.

He pulled the blanket from the sleeping bag, wrapped himself tightly, and angled between the front seats.

The seaplane’s motor sputtered and the single propeller spun to life. Garrity eased the throttle, and the plane moved forward and out of its concealment. He steered upstream where the fjord was straight enough for takeoff. He pressured the throttle, and the seaplane coursed forward faster and faster until it cleared the water. He climbed above the rock wall and banked over the ice sheet. Once he had put distance between him and the mine, he turned south and headed out to sea.

His mind reeled. His face burned. He was bleeding and hypothermic. But he had to get this intelligence to Washington.

He had to get it to Rick Justice.

That was the last thought Andrew Garrity had before he passed out, one thousand feet over the Labrador Sea.

CHAPTER 2

Norfolk Naval Hospital

Portsmouth, New Jersey

0932 hours, Thursday, 30 May 1935

L

IEUTENANT COLONEL RICK Justice, U.S. Army Air Corps, and Lieutenant Commander Roger Sky Hawk Winchester, United States Navy, marched down the corridor on the third floor of Norfolk Naval Hospital.

Justice was the taller of the two, at six feet, five inches. He was a hard-muscled man of 245 pounds who filled his khaki shirt and trousers tightly. His head was square and his face chiseled. Hair the color of summer wheat and eyes as blue as the noon sky were his predominant features. He wore the gold ring of the United States Military Academy at West Point on his left hand.

Winchester possessed a lean, 185-pound body, five inches shorter than Justice. His thick hair was bark-brown, and he wore it just at the Navy standard. His eyes were like emerald crystals. A thin pencil mustache and a lazy grin made his resemblance to the actor Clark Gable uncanny.

Both men belonged to a special actions unit of the War Department, code named Intrepid. Rick Justice was the team leader, and Winchester was his second in command.

They stopped at the nurses’ station and signed in as visitors. Winchester flashed his Gable grin at the young nurses milling about, but they seemed to have eyes only for Justice. If Justice noticed, he didn’t respond to it.

You know, Rick, you cramp my style, Winchester said as the two officers headed for the patient rooms.

I didn’t know you had any style, Justice said, straight-faced.

Winchester stopped walking. Justice turned to him and smiled at the look on Winchester’s face.

Son of a bitch, Winchester said. You’re always so damn stoic that I never know if you’re joking.

Justice winked. Let’s go.

Did you just... never mind.

They stopped at Room 309 and knocked.

The response was weak. Come in.

Lieutenant Andrew Garrity lay on crisp white sheets beneath a heavy white blanket, the head of the bed elevated, and his back and head propped up with pillows. He wore a hospital gown, also white, tied in the back. His face was nearly as pale as the linen.

A doctor clad in a white lab coat, stethoscope around his neck and a clipboard in his hand, stood next to Garrity’s bed, jotting notes. The doctor looked up at the door’s opening. I was wondering when you were going to show up.

Cutter, Justice said, surprised. Don’t you do your autopsies on dead people?

Dr. Steven Cutter Lester was a longtime acquaintance of Rick Justice, going back to Lester’s days at a field hospital in France during the Great War. Since then, he had left active service with the Army and had taken a position with the Navy as a physician at the Portsmouth Naval Hospital assigned, primarily, in the basement morgue. Lester was a tall, hefty man in his forties, with a thick shock of brown hair. Aside from his personal relationship with Justice, Lester acted as a consultant to Intrepid when needed.

I’m going to make an exception in Garrity’s case, Lester quipped. How are you, Hawk?

Garrity cleared his throat.

"Outstanding, Cutter.