The tunnel shook; men cried out in involuntary terror as dust and bits of concrete fell from above. That subsided into choking, coughing order as the rumble died away. Men rose into a half-crouch in the taller connecting tunnel, rushing forward to the iron ladders leading upwards. John took the first, jerking himself up by the main force of his thick arms and shoulders, freeing the shotgun slung over one shoulder as he went.
The cellar was exactly as the plans had shown it, a big open space under stone arches with cell blocks leading off from all sides and an iron staircase in each corner. The plans hadn’t included the steel cages hanging from the ceiling on metal cables that let them be raised or lowered. Each cage was of a different size and shape, some wired so that current could be run through them, some lined with saw-edges or spikes, most of exactly the dimensions that would let the inmate neither sit nor stand. All were occupied, although some of the victims were barely breathing, shapes of skin stretched over bone with the bone worn through the skin at contact points. Tongues swollen with thirst, or ripped out; hands broken by the boot to the fingers—that was the usual accompaniment to arrest. More hung on metal grids along the walls. Those had their eyelids cut off and lights rigged in front of them—steady arc lights, others blinking at precise intervals.
The building above was Fourth Bureau headquarters for the New Territories. The specialists had been at work right up until the partisans burst through the floors; the evidence lay bleeding and twitching on the jointed metal tables that were arranged in neat rows across the floor. Most of them were flat metal shapes with gutters for the blood; others looked like dental chairs. The secret policemen lay beside their clients now, equally bloody where the bullets and buckshot had left them.
John swallowed and suppressed an impulse to squeeze his eyes shut. He’d been fully aware of what went on in places like this, but that was not the same as seeing it all at once. He suspected that he’d be seeing it in his dreams for the rest of his life.
“Let’s go,” he said to the squad with him. “Remember, nothing is to be burned.”
They were supposed to get to the central filing system before the operators had a chance to destroy it.
“And take prisoners if you can,” he went on.
They’d talk. And then he’d turn them over to the people in the cells.
* * *
“They’re attempting to mine the outer harbor,” Elise Eberdorf said.
Half of her face was still covered with healing burn scars, and she was missing most of her left arm, but she was functional—which was more than she’d expected when the last series of explosions threw her off the bridge of the sinking Grossvolk in Barclon harbor. Functional enough to command the destroyer flotilla in Pillars, at least. The Chosen were a logical people, and the staff hadn’t blamed her for losing to a force eight times her own. She’d managed to save the two battleships, and many of the transports.
“What ships?” she croaked. The burns distorted her voice, but it was . . . functional, she thought.
“Light craft. Trawlers, mostly.”
She missed Helmut, but Angelika was competent enough. “I strongly suspect air attack next,” she said, tracing a finger up the map of the Land’s east coast. “The Home Fleet is in Oathtaking, of course; if we join them, that will be a major setback for them and bring the odds back to something approaching even.”
She paused. “The latest from Fleet HQ, please.”
The orders remained the same. Rendezvous as per Plan Beta, A hundred twenty miles south-southeast of Oathtaking.”
“Tsk.” Overcaution, at a time when only boldness could retrieve the situation. At a guess, Home Fleet command simply wanted every ship they could under their command for the final battle. She’d offered to take her four-stackers out for a night torpedo attack.
“Sir!” A communications tech looked up from her wireless. “Air scouts report large numbers of enemy aircraft approaching from the southeast.”