8:00 PM – 22 March, 1979 — The German-American Club, Schweinfurt, West Germany

  Ada Kesselman set down four one-liter steins on the table and slid them toward the eager, waiting faces.

  “I still don’t know how you can carry two of those in one of those dainty hands,” one of the men said with a smile. He’d been flirting with her since he arrived, and she was positive she’d find a napkin with his name and number on it once they left.

  She returned his smile. “They’re not that dainty. I’ve carried twice that many.”

  She calibrated both her smile and the sway of her hips as she walked away—enough to increase her tip by a few Deutschmarks. Not as much as the Americans would tip—that was expecting too much of native Germans. Even Ada didn’t tip more than ten percent to other members of her wait-staff tribe. But as the night wore on, and through the weekend, the stream of GIs passing through the club would fill her pockets with coins and bills.

  She wanted to surprise Aric with a pair of promise rings. Not wedding rings, perish the thought. But something to make him feel better. He’d been very understanding when she said no—but she could tell it had hurt him. And if she were being honest, she’d admit she’d spent a fair amount of time imagining what it would be like being married to such a beautiful man—one who could fly, or heal the sick and injured.

  But a man who could hear her thoughts? Who had to exert himself not to hear her thoughts? That scared her.

  He had promised never to dip into her mind, and she believed him. But still…

  The sound of automatic gunfire from the Kaserne across the street shocked her out of her internal monologue. Her hands were still damp with soapy water when she looked at Louis, the bartender.

  “Was that gunfire?” he asked.

  The four men she’d just served had heard it too. One of them stood and went to the front window, pulling the curtain aside.

  “Something’s happening at the American Kaserne,” he said as he peered directly across the four ne street.

  Oh my God, Ada thought. Aric.

  8:00 PM – 22 March, 1979 — Ledward Kaserne Main Gate, Schweinfurt, West Germany

  Sabine sat in the back of the stolen Army truck with the man who she knew as Max. He knew her as Else. Both of them had an American duffle bag that contained their weapons and ammunition. At their feet were two smaller canvas bags containing the explosives they would set on whatever equipment they could find. Neither of them, nor the two men in the front of the truck, carried anything that could be used to identify them.

  Owing to the determination and thoroughness of the U.S. Army Air Corps there were few buildings predating 1945 still standing in Schweinfurt. But a few on the far outskirts still stood, and it was from one of those that they had begun their journey. Even at that location she hadn’t left anything to identify her. Just the clothes she’d worn when she arrived, and an assortment of coins and bills in the event she survived and was able to return. Enough to buy a train ticket, and a meal along the way.

  She and Max didn’t speak on the trip from the warehouse to the Kaserne. They sat side by side, on the passenger’s side of the truck so they would be facing the guard shack as they entered the Kaserne. What happened once they got there depended on the Americans. The four of them were dressed in American fatigues. They had fake American military identification. They spoke English, but not as well as Sabine. She could pass for American even with GIs. If it came to a close interrogation at the gate they would have to shoot their way through. She’d argued that it should be her in the front, and the driver should just act like he’d lost his voice. But it seemed that a woman’s opinion didn’t amount to much, not with this group. She wished she could drum up the energy to be surprised. It was just one more nail in the coffin of her association with the RAF.

  A knock on the partition between front and back announced that they had arrived at the Kaserne. Sabine and Max opened their duffle bags but left their loaded weapons inside for the moment. Sabine hoped they wouldn’t need them.

  8:00 PM – 22 March, 1979 — Ramstein Air Force Base Main Gate, Frankfurt, West Germany

  The line of stopped traffic stretched almost half a kilometer in Paul’s estimation. They had been stopped for a while, and the six men in the back of the truck were growing restless.

  “What’s the dey?” one of the men in the back asked. Paul didn’t recognize his voice. He didn’t recognize any of their voices. He barely remembered their names, and tended to address them by their distinctive body features. Ft top. Big ears. No chin.

  Jorge continued to stare at the activity at the gate.

  “The police have a guy in custody. Looks like he stole a car and got trapped when the Americans stopped him at the gate.”

  Paul nodded. “Picked the wrong getaway route. Must not be a local.”

  “Lots of car thieves show up in Frankfurt for the easy pickings. I wonder where he thought he was turning into when he ran into the swing arm?”

  “I wish he’d picked tomorrow to steal a car. We’re te,” Paul said. “And getting ter by the minute.”

  Jorge shrugged. “You got theater tickets or something? 8. 8:30. 9. Does it really matter when we start?”

  “I guess not,” Paul answered.

  He had no idea how wrong he was.

  8:02 PM – 22 March, 1979 — Ledward Barracks, Schweinfurt, West Germany

  “Where you guys coming from so te?” Sabine heard the guard ask.

  “Conn Barracks. Running some personnel back.” The driver answered.

  “They couldn’t take the shuttle?” a different voice asked.

  “We were told to bring them back,” the driver answered.

  There was a pause during which no one spoke. It gave Sabine a bad feeling. Americans were the most talkative people on the pnet in her experience, and silence was not a good sign.

  “Why are you wearing headgear?” The first voice asked.

  “What?” The driver asked.

  “Why are you wearing headgear inside?”

  “Oh. Sorry. I forgot.”

  Shit, Sabine thought. They were all wearing green caps. As far as they knew it was required. But they’d obviously missed something.

  She quickly pulled hers off, as did Max.

  “What about him?” the second voice asked. “He forget too?”

  It was going to shit. She was certain of it now. When she looked at Max she saw that he’d reached the same conclusion. Without a word they both took their weapons out of the duffles and switched from SAFE to AUTO.

  “Step out of the truck,” the first voice commanded. Barely five seconds ter the back canvas fp was pulled aside and an American face appeared.

  Sabine barely had time to point before she fired. The face disappeared immediately as Max fired through the side canvas toward the guard shack. They both lurched backward and were thrown to the floor of the truck as the driver gunned the engine.

  Their covert penetration of the American facility had just become very much overt.

  8:03 PM – 22 March, 1979 — Ledward Barracks, Schweinfurt, West Germany

  “Ammo,” Green called across the room without looking up from his comic book, “what’cha readin’?”

  Aric didn’t take his eyes from the page. “High Couch of Silistra, by Janet Morris.”

  “What’s it about?”

  Aric id the book on his chest and looked over at the man with the X-Men comic simirly pced.

  “It’s about sex. Power. Self-realization. You can borrow it when I’m done, if you want.”

  “Thanks,” Green replied as he picked up his comic and shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Don’t forget to underline all the dirty parts.”

  Aric smiled as he picked up his book again. “Will do.”

  Their six-man room, with the two rge windows that got opened whenever one of his roommates lit up a hashish pipe, faced the back side of the building—away from the main gates. So when the gunfire started, it took a moment for the two men to register what they were hearing.

  Aric’s reaction to the familiar sound of an AK-47 set to full auto was instinctive. He expanded his senses until he could see, clear as a photograph in his mind, a two-and-a-half-ton truck speeding away from the ruined gatehouse. He blocked out everything else that tried to pull at his attention—until the arm sounded and a voice crackled over the intercom, dragging him from the preternatural world back into the real one.

  “Attention!” the voice shouted. Aric didn’t recognize it, but he knew the tone. “Ledward Barracks is under attack! Second Ptoon—arm and out, combat ready, five minutes, on the exit road in front of the barracks!”

  “What the fuck is going on?” Green asked as he ran to the door and yanked it open.

  “Sounds like round two with the guys from the ammo dump,” Aric said, following him across the hall. Five seconds ter, they’d joined West and Trujillo at the open window, looking down on a scene of pure chaos.

  “Bravo Troop’s already pouring out onto the street,” West said, nodding toward the barracks across the square. He was right—men in web gear and steel pots were already raising loaded weapons and searching for targets. In less than five minutes, C Troop’s own Second Ptoon would be doing just that.

  The guardhouse was a wreck—its windows shattered, its wooden walls chewed to splinters, the lower cinder block wall marked by bullet impacts. The two MPs who’d been on duty were being treated by people in civilian clothes—either off-duty GIs or German base workers. Green pointed.

  “They must’ve ducked when the shooting started. The concrete half-wall saved them.”

  “Not all of them,” Aric said. One had been shot clean through the shoulder. The other had concrete shrapnel wounds. But they were breathing, and help was on the way. He could leave them to the medics.

  They watched as Second Ptoon began pouring out of their building.

  “There’s our fucking West Pointer,” Trujillo said as Second Lieutenant McAllister emerged—helmet on backwards.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” West muttered, shaking his head. “I’d make a better officer than that guy.”

  “Didn’t you lose your helmet?” Aric asked him. “In Wildflecken? You had to wait for daylight to find it, right?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” West asked, frowning.

  Aric shook his head. “Nothing.”

  The gunfire continued, now from the direction of the motor pool. Their vehicles—APCs and M60 tanks—were parked there, along with those of every other unit. The square between the entrance and exit roads was now filled with armed GIs. Both gates were closed and guarded. Nothing was getting out.

  Nothing and no one.

  Aric was content to leave this fight to base security and the men already called out to help them. He turned his attention back to the wounded MPs who were now receiving care from medics and nurses. He watched as each received battlefield aid until two Army ambunces arrived. In the distance gunfire could be heard, but it was less frequent. The men in the square began to mill around, their discipline broken by idleness.

  “Watch the fucking gates!” First Sergeant Lee shouted. “This isn’t over yet!”

  Sabine sat on the bed of the truck and clutched the seat she’d fallen from for dear life. The truck sawed back and forth as the driver followed the route he’d practiced only in mock up. Now there were vehicles parked on the streets as well as people walking, or standing and wondering if they’d really heard gunshots.

  “Right and then left!” the man in the passenger seat shouted.

  “I know where I’m going!” the driver shouted back as Sabine continued to hold on.

  “Why are you slowing down?” the passenger asked.

  “I’m not!” the driver answered. “The guard must have hit something in the engine.”

  Sabine could feel it. Their speed was reducing, but as far as she could tell they hadn’t reached their destination yet.

  “They’re going to be on us soon if we don’t speed up,” Max said.

  “Doesn’t sound like speeding up is an option,” she answered. She crawled to the front of the bed and raised herself up high enough to move the small fp and look through the drivers compartment. She could see the motor pool directly ahead. The engine was making a shuddering noise akin to a death rattle.

  “Get ready to bail out,” the driver said as he braked hard. Sabine was pushed firmly against the partition until the truck came to rest. She picked up her bag of explosives and scrambled out the back of the truck.

  She and Max shouldered their bags and began to run towards the armored vehicles that stood one-hundred meters away. Behind them came sound of vehicles racing towards them. They were behind schedule, their covers blown, with little time to choose targets, pnt their deyed charges, and reach their escape route.

  Max was the first to reach the safety of the huge steel vehicles. He picked a tank at random and climbed on top, but the hatches were all closed tight. He scanned down the line of identical rge bodies.

  “They’re all locked. No way of pnting charges inside.”

  “Then we pnt them outside,” Sabine said as she removed her own explosives and pced them under the rge cog in the front of the tank track.

  At the first sight of headlights approaching them one of the other men opened fire. The headlights quickly went out and the jeep skidded to a halt. The two men took cover and began to pepper the Americans with bursts of fire.

  “Charges are set!” Sabine called. “We need to move!”

  “OK, lets—” the driver began to say before his head blossomed blood and brains under the impact of a 5.56 mm NATO round.

  “JESUS!” Max shouted as he ducked behind a tank.

  “We have five minutes before these things go BOOM!” Sabine said. “MOVE!”

  They had another hundred meters to the point where they would meet the extraction team. The fence should already be cut, the men positioned to give them covering fire if they needed it. Which they very much did.

  They reached the approximate area for their departure, but there was no opening in the fence. Max and Sabine turned to face the direction any pursuers would come from while the other man used his fshlight to signal the men outside the fence. In less than a minute two men approached the fence.

  “The Americans are on us,” they told the breaching team. “We need to hurry.”

  “We have to—” one of the men began before Max opened fire. He had barely fired two bursts before three rounds in quick succession struck him in the chest and neck.

  “MAX!” she shouted as she dropped ft to the concrete.

  “Get us out of here!” her st remaining comrade yelled to the two men outside the fence.

  “We have to wait! The other attack hasn’t started yet!”

  “What other—” the man began before two holes appeared in his back. He made a sound as if all the air was being pushed out of him before dropping.

  “What other attack?” Sabine finished the question. She had thought they were the only attack pnned. All of them did.

  “The main attack. At the airbase. It was supposed to kick off the same time yours did. But something happened.”

  “I don’t fucking care! Cut the fucking fence!”

  “Not until the other attack is underway!” the man said as a hail of bullets flew past Sabine.

  She realized in that moment what she was—what her entire team was. A diversion. Sacrificial mbs. Expendable. Her death was recorded by the RAF while the assault was still in the pnning phase.

  The idea that the upper echelon of the Red Army Faction could treat their lives so casually made her furious.

  And in that moment there was only one pce to focus her anger.

  In the time it took her mind to reach its decision she leveled her weapon and cut down the two men outside the fence.

  Then she threw her weapon over the fence and ran.

  Time passed, and it appeared to Aric that there was nothing else to see when Ben Ryan came sprinting down the hallway.

  “They’re attacking Ramstein Air Base! They’re attacking Ramstein Air Base!”

  Fuck me, Aric thought, as he turned and crossed the hall.

  A few seconds ter, he’d opened one of the rge windows in his room—and was airborne.