Chapter 13 — Baptism by Fire

Polished jackboots crossed a marble foyer in Oslo, past shattered glass swept into tidy piles by men too frightened to leave it lying. In the Royal Palace, under chandeliers still burning as if nothing at all had happened, Dr. Viktor Metallgeist was received by German officers and by a Norwegian in a suit too new for the occasion — Vidkun Quisling, the man who had handed his own country across a desk.

Quisling talked about history. Metallgeist let him. The word congratulations did not come. The capital, the Doctor said at last, was Quisling’s to keep — the whole country, for all he cared. That King Haakon VII had slipped away to Britain in the night mattered less than the weather.

Only one thing mattered. “The island,” Metallgeist said. “My troops.”

Quisling assured him the garrison at Oscarsborg was in place, dug in, and digging.

Metallgeist turned and walked out through the tidy piles of glass, his Eisen Verfolger falling in behind him like a shadow with six legs, and the traitor was left alone with his chandeliers.

Dawn ripped open the Norwegian sky, pink and cold and ugly. The black fingers of the fjord reached into the sea, clutching the British destroyer like it was an unwelcome guest. On the deck of the HMS Hunter, Frank “The All American” Zill clung to a bulkhead, willing his stomach not to mutiny.

The night had been all wind and heaving steel. By morning the deck was streaked with freezing spray, so slick every step was a small act of suicide. The forward guns were covered in their gray shrouds, but the men weren’t. Every rating and Marine aboard had been called up, rifles and helmets at the ready, staring at the coastline the way a crowd stares before the bell.

Zill wore his uniform—some British bastard’s hand-me-downs—over his wrestling singlet. He could feel the elastic biting into his thighs, could feel the sweat pooling under the wool, but he’d be damned if he let anybody see him shiver. To his left, Elston “Borneo Wildman” Fowler knelt on the wet deck, face calm, hands flat against the steel like he was taking the ship’s pulse. To Zill’s right, Benjamin “Breathtaking” Bradley looked unreasonably good for a man who hadn’t slept in thirty hours. His hair was perfect, helmet perched at a daring angle, chin high.

Bradley pulled a flask from his breast pocket and offered it to Zill. “You look green, Frank. Want to die with a smile?”

Zill shook his head, but his fingers trembled on the gunwale. “I’m fine.”

“Liar,” said Bradley, and took a swig. “I’ve seen corpses with better color.”

Wildman grunted. “Drink it if it helps. In the jungle, we used rum to kill parasites.”

Zill ignored them. He stared at the shoreline, which had gone from a smudge on the horizon to a mean, snow-banked reality. The landing craft bobbed next to the hull, diesel fumes churning in a sick, greasy cloud.

A dozen British infantrymen waited by the boat, rifles slung and faces blank. The Turnbuckle Brigade was the only outfit not in regulation uniform. They stood out like a rash.

Dottie Betts showed up last. She wore a British trench coat, sleeves torn off, her hair slicked back and her glass eye glittering with anticipation. She clomped across the deck with her steel prosthetic, ignoring the stares. When she reached the others, she tapped the metal knee with her fist and said, “If I drown, tell the coroner to give the leg to my sister.”

Nobody laughed.

Sergeant Haverchuck stalked over, voice pitched to carry through wind and engine noise. “Board up. No stragglers.” He pointed at Bradley. “You first. Then the rest.”

The climb down was a contest of balance and courage. Zill made it, barely, boots landing on the slippery ramp of the landing craft. The thing shuddered with every man who dropped aboard. Wildman followed, then Dottie, then Jose “El Aguila de la Muerte” Rivera. The masked luchador wore his colors under the uniform, and his nerves showed in the way he kept twisting his wrists, popping the joints one at a time.

The last aboard were the Brits, packed in tight. The coxswain gunned the engine and the boat bucked out into the surf. The view from the water was worse. The sea wasn’t blue—it was the color of old spit and the taste of copper. Chunks of ice floated in it, some the size of footballs, others as big as coffins.

Zill thought of home. Of his mother, probably feeding the birds, or asleep in her chair with the radio going. He wondered if she’d recognize him if she saw him now.

The beach ahead was a joke—bare mud and shingle, no cover. Above it, Oscarsborg Fortress loomed, all stone walls and slit windows. Nazi banners hung limp from the battlements. Zill tried to count the machine gun nests, lost track after five.

Bradley nudged him. “You think they’re expecting us?”

Zill didn’t answer. A German bomber, painted black on black, appeared overhead. It banked low, trailing a line of smoke from one wing. Somebody on the destroyer’s deck opened up with an anti-aircraft gun. The tracer rounds arched into the dawn, pretty as fireworks.

The coxswain screamed, “Brace!” and everyone ducked low. The bomber dropped a stick of bombs, four silver eggs tumbling end over end. The first two missed the destroyer, the third splashed twenty yards off the starboard bow. The last hit the water close enough to rock the landing craft like a toy in a bathtub.

Zill went to his knees, head between his arms. Cold water sluiced over the side, soaking him to the bone. He bit down on his tongue and tasted blood.

Wildman just held on, knuckles white.

Then the bombs stopped. The boat kept going.

The shoreline was close now. The Fortress opened up, a thunder of machine guns and mortars. Bullets hit the water in a spray, ticking off the steel hull and spitting white chips of ice.

A British private next to Dottie took a round in the helmet. The helmet popped off and rolled down the deck like a kicked can. The private didn’t move.

Dottie didn’t even flinch.

The ramp dropped with a clang. Zill saw mud, rocks, and a wall of wire. Haverchuck screamed, “Go! Go! Go!”

The first three British infantrymen died before they touched dry land. The rest jumped over them, boots churning in the slop. Bradley was fast, low, a streak in the chaos. Zill followed, dragging Wildman with him. The air was full of noise—gunshots, screams, the distant rumble of the destroyer’s guns returning fire.

Zill hit the beach and dropped behind a half-buried concrete pylon. Wildman landed beside him, breathing hard but calm. Zill’s heart pounded so loud it drowned out everything else.

Across the beach, Bradley huddled with Rivera and Dottie behind a jag of stone. Bullets sparked off the rock, sending chunks flying.

Dottie yelled, “If you’re gonna get shot, at least get shot doing something!” She stood and waved both arms at the Fortress. “Come on, you Nazi bastards!”

A mortar round hit twenty feet away, spraying mud and shrapnel. The blast knocked Dottie flat. She scrambled up, laughed, and checked her limbs for damage.

Zill risked a look. Haverchuck and Smith had made it onto the beach, crawling behind a line of dead men. The rest of the British were pinned, faces pressed into the mud.

Haverchuck screamed, “Stay put!” at the Turnbuckle Brigade, his face a twisted mask. He pointed at Zill, then at the Fortress, then mimed a stay-low hand signal.

Wildman nudged Zill. “We need to move. Can’t win from here.”

Zill nodded. “You got a plan?”

Wildman’s teeth showed. “Always.”

They waited for the next mortar to hit, then sprinted, bent double, to a stretch of wire. Wildman pulled a pair of wire cutters from his belt—standard issue, but he’d filed the blades himself for weeks before deployment. He snipped fast, hands steady, then yanked a hole big enough for both men.

“Go!” Wildman barked, and Zill dove through.

Behind them, Bradley and the others saw what was happening. Bradley pointed, and Rivera followed, still masked, ducking under fire with gymnast grace. Dottie rolled across the mud, using her prosthetic as a battering ram to flatten the wire.

The world shrank to the pounding of blood, the scream of the guns, and the slap of mud against flesh.

Zill found cover behind a shattered tank trap, breathing hard. He looked back. Wildman was right behind, face smeared with mud, eyes alive.

“Next move?” Zill said, panting.

Wildman checked the lay of the land. “Wait for the smoke, then up the ditch. The side wall’s weakest.”

Zill peeked over the trap. Bradley was pinned behind a wrecked jeep, three yards away. He looked pissed, but alive. Dottie was with him, reloading a pistol she’d picked off a dead officer. Rivera hugged the mud, eyes wide and white behind the mask.

Zill called to them. “On my signal! Move for the ditch!”

Bradley gave a thumbs up.

Then, above the fortress, the bombers came back.

This time, they aimed for the shore. The first blast hit a mortar pit, showering concrete and blood into the sky. The next landed close enough to flip the abandoned jeep, sending Bradley and Dottie sprawling. Rivera didn’t move for a second, then crawled, inch by inch, to Zill’s position.

The smoke was everywhere. It tasted like burning rubber and history.

Wildman yelled, “Now!” and they all broke cover, ran low, ran fast, ran with everything they had left.

Haverchuck and Smith followed, laying down covering fire. Bullets whined overhead. Zill felt one graze his shoulder, tearing the fabric but missing the meat. He dove into the ditch, rolled, and came up with Wildman beside him.

They made it to the base of the fortress wall. For a second, there was peace—no bullets, no mortars, just the wet slap of the sea and the sound of men catching their breath.

Bradley joined them, gasping. He had lost his helmet, but not his hair. “That was—” he panted, “—not in the script.”

Zill looked up the wall. Twenty feet of stone, then a ledge, then another ten feet. In the ring they’d call it a high spot. There was no mat under this one.

Dottie appeared at his side, mud-caked, eyes bright. “We can get up there,” she said. “I know a way.”

Wildman grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Up above, the Nazi gunners regrouped. Zill could hear their shouts, the scrape of boots on stone.

Haverchuck barked at his men, “Hold your ground! Wait for the signal!”

Smith crawled over, blood on his sleeve. He didn’t look hurt, but Zill couldn’t tell.

For a moment, the world was nothing but waiting. The beach behind them was hell. The wall ahead was death.

Bradley licked his lips. “So, who’s first?”

Wildman said, “Heroes lead.”

Dottie slapped Zill on the back. “That’s you, All-American.”

Zill didn’t smile. He just grabbed the lowest stone, dug in his boots, and started to climb.

Behind him, the Turnbuckle Brigade followed.

The noise of the battle faded for a second, and Zill thought he heard the waves laughing.

Then a machine gun opened up from the top of the wall.

The war had started, and it didn’t care about heroes or heels.

It was over before it started, except nobody told the Turnbuckle Brigade.

Pinned in a ditch, the Brigade listened as the machine gun chewed through the air above, splinters of mortar and stone raining down with every burst. Zill pressed his face to the frozen earth. His breath smoked in the cold. Wildman was right beside him, hunched low, eyes darting up and down the wall.

To their left, Dottie knelt behind a mangled coil of barbed wire, loading bullets into a captured Luger. Bradley lay flat, arms wrapped over his head. Rivera peeked over the rim of the ditch, then ducked back, face ghost-pale behind the mask.

Zill’s chest heaved, heart thundering. He expected Wildman to call out a plan, or maybe just pray, but instead the man said nothing, just stared at the lip of the wall and the bunker beyond.

Then Wildman turned, put a hand on Zill’s shoulder, and whispered, “You want to be a hero, Frank?”

“Not especially,” Zill muttered.

Wildman’s teeth showed. “Follow my lead. Wait for my cue.”

Above, another burst, louder and closer. They were boxed in, nowhere to run. Zill braced himself for the end, when Wildman suddenly pushed up, hands high, and yelled at the top of his lungs: “Hey, Nazis! You want to see a real fight?”

Zill’s eyes bugged. He almost yanked Wildman back down, but the man was up and out, waving his arms and howling. The fire slackened for a moment—nobody expects a crazy man to stand up and shout—but then a single round zipped past Wildman’s ear, close enough to nick the lobe.

Wildman yelped, then howled again, louder.

He leaped onto the open ground, legs wide, arms circling. For a moment, nobody shot. The Nazis on the wall gawked, then started shouting back, laughing. A few rifles poked out, but the machine gunner hesitated.

Wildman beckoned, taunting. “You afraid to fight one man? Or do you need the whole Wehrmacht to hold your balls?”

Zill watched in horror. He expected Wildman to get torn apart, but instead, the Germans started arguing—some shouted to kill him, others seemed to want the show to go on.

Wildman pounded his chest, then yelled, “Get your ass out here, Frank!”

Zill’s mouth went dry.

Dottie grinned from behind the wire. “Go get ’em, All American.”

He had to. He clambered up, hands shaking, and stood beside Wildman. The gunfire all but stopped. Even the Luger in Dottie’s hands felt silent compared to the noise in Zill’s skull.

Wildman turned to him and whispered, “We give them a match. You know how.”

Zill blinked, then understood.

Wildman started the first move: an overhead chop that whistled past Zill’s face. Zill rolled with it, letting his body take the hit, then reeled back, clutching his chest and staggering. Wildman followed with a haymaker, but this time Zill ducked it, then hooked Wildman in the ribs. The sound echoed off the stone.

“Is that all you got, Wildman?” Zill shouted, flexing for the benefit of the wall.

Wildman staggered, then lunged, tackling Zill to the ground. They rolled, boots flailing, mud and snow caked to their uniforms. The Germans started to cheer, even the machine gunner. For the first time since the beach, the shooting stopped entirely.

Bradley crawled up, peeking over the edge. “Are you kidding me?”

Dottie laughed. “They’re buying it.”

Wildman locked Zill in a headlock, then hoisted him up and slammed him down, dead center in the open space. Zill groaned, real pain mixing with the fake. He kicked out, sending Wildman sprawling, then popped up to his feet, arms raised in triumph.

“USA!” Zill bellowed, hoping someone would hear.

The Germans on the wall whistled, a few clapping. The whole thing had turned into a carnival sideshow.

Wildman rolled, spat mud, then did a handspring off a chunk of broken masonry. “Come on, Zill! Or are you too soft from all that apple pie?”

Zill charged him, dropping Wildman with a flying tackle. They scuffled, exchanging slaps and holds, every move exaggerated for the crowd. Zill felt something in his shoulder tear, but adrenaline drowned it out.

Wildman whispered, “On three, flip me.”

Zill braced, waited, then at Wildman’s count, heaved the man into a perfect suplex, slamming him back-first into the mud.

The wall went wild.

Even the officers above shouted, egging them on.

Dottie looked over at Bradley. “You see that? They’re not even paying attention to us.”

Bradley stared, dumbfounded. “Are we supposed to—?”

Dottie didn’t wait for an answer. She signaled to Haverchuck and Smith, who were hunkered with the British. “Now’s your shot!” she yelled.

On the wall, two Germans hung over the parapet, hands waving, shouting bets. Zill and Wildman kept it up, rolling and brawling, dragging the spectacle right to the base of the wall.

The machine gunner actually left his post to get a better view.

The British didn’t hesitate. Haverchuck barked a command, and his men darted up the side, hugging the shadow of the wall. They moved like ghosts, undetected. Dottie covered their advance, popping off shots at anything that looked like a threat.

Wildman got Zill in a sleeper hold. Zill feigned a blackout, tongue hanging, eyes rolling up. Wildman released, stood over him, then lifted both arms high, triumphant.

Zill sprang to his feet, dropkicked Wildman in the spine, then caught him in a headlock of his own. They spun, fell, then lay panting in the mud.

Up above, the first of the British topped the wall, bayonets fixed. They caught the Germans with their backs turned, watching the match. The slaughter was fast and ugly. Zill heard screams, then gunshots, then the thud of bodies.

He didn’t stop performing.

Not until Dottie yelled, “They’re through! Move!”

Wildman staggered to his feet, pulled Zill up with him. They limped to the base of the wall, where a British private leaned over the edge, waving a rope.

Zill looked at Wildman. “You ever climb one of these?”

Wildman grinned. “Only after winning the main event.”

They scrambled up, battered and bruised, as the British secured the walltop.

Bradley and Rivera followed, scrambling, Dottie hot on their heels.

At the top, the world was chaos—Germans dead or dying, British storming the bunker, the Union Jack flapping in the breeze.

Zill collapsed, breathless.

Wildman looked at him, then at the carnage below. “Not bad for a couple of freaks.”

Zill spat blood, smiled. “Would’ve preferred a DQ finish.”

Dottie joined them, blood on her knuckles. “Save it for the victory lap, boys.”

Bradley appeared, gasping, hair a disaster, but with both eyes still intact.

Haverchuck crossed the roof, gun still smoking. He looked at the wrestlers, then at the bodies, then back at the wrestlers.

“You’re all goddamn lunatics,” he said.

Nobody disagreed.

They held the fortress. The show was over.

The last stand was an anticlimax. After the wall fell, after the British swept through the upper bastion, the only thing left was a single machine gun nest dug in behind three feet of sandbags and dead men. Zill and Wildman kept up their charade just long enough to draw fire away from the real threat: Smith, moving up the far side of the parapet, rifle shouldered and face set like a steel trap.

Every shot from Smith was a punctuation mark. First the loader, then the gunner, then the spotter, each going down with a neat, efficient snap. Even as the British grenadiers closed in, Smith was already advancing, eyes peeled for anything not wearing an English helmet.

By mid-morning, the guns were silent. The only sounds were the sucking wind, the crunch of boots on broken glass, and the low, raw groans of the wounded. The Brigade crawled into the shadow of a gutted pillbox and lay there, not talking, just breathing and listening to the thunder in their heads.

Dottie was the first up. She checked her prosthetic, then limped to Bradley and helped him to a seated position. “All those squats finally paid off, huh?” she said.

Bradley grunted, spat a wad of blood, then managed a weak smile. “I always said I was the workhorse.”

Wildman rolled onto his back, arms splayed. He looked at Zill, who sat hunched, mud and blood streaked down his face. “You good?”

Zill shrugged. “I’ve had worse Tuesdays.”

Rivera slumped against the pillbox, silent, hugging his knees. His mask was torn, one eyehole gaping wide.

Haverchuck and Smith appeared out of the mist, faces set and hands raw from climbing and shooting. Smith had a gash in his thigh, already soaking through his field bandage, but he limped as if it was nothing.

Haverchuck barked, “All accounted for?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “We hold the line until the Navy gives us the next target.”

Dottie raised a brow. “You hear a radio working? ‘Cause I didn’t.”

Haverchuck ignored her. He pointed at Bradley and Rivera. “You two, check the perimeter. Dottie, find anything useful in the mess. Wildman, help me with the wounded.”

Zill pushed himself upright. “What about me?”

Haverchuck considered, then said, “You’re with Smith.”

Smith didn’t look happy about it, but he jerked his chin at Zill. “Let’s check the ridge. See if the Jerries left any surprises.”

They set out, boots squelching in the mud. The ridge overlooked the fjord, now dotted with corpses and the battered hulls of two landing craft, neither seaworthy. Zill scanned the horizon. All he saw was sea, clouds, and the distant speck of the destroyer.

Smith knelt and pulled out a battered pair of binoculars. “Take a look,” he said, passing them to Zill.

Zill scanned the Fortress’s inland approach. There was movement on the snow—columns of men, columns of trucks, a single dark shape crawling up the road.

“Reinforcements,” he muttered.

Smith nodded. “The Krauts don’t like losing, especially to a bunch of wrestlers.”

They waited. Zill’s hands shook from adrenaline, or maybe just the cold.

“You ever think this is all just a joke?” Zill asked, voice low.

Smith looked at him, a shadow of a smile on his thin lips. “It is. But only the dead are in on the punchline.”

They moved back to the pillbox.

The Brigade had made a little home of the ruin, lit by a single, half-melted candle and the glow of a stolen German radio. Dottie had found a cache of cigarettes and was passing them around. Rivera tore the sleeve off his uniform and used it to patch Bradley’s hand, working with the neat efficiency of a battlefield medic.

Wildman was carving notches into the side of the pillbox with a bayonet. Zill watched as he made one, then two, then three. “Keeping score?”

Wildman shrugged. “Every day above ground is a win.”

Bradley looked up, cigarette dangling from his lips. “You hear that, Zill? We’re winning.”

Zill managed a half-smile, then turned to Haverchuck. “You said there’d be orders.”

Haverchuck’s jaw worked, chewing a thought. Then he turned to Smith. “Tell them.”

Smith sat, grimacing as he adjusted his leg. The bandage was already soaked through, the blood bright and arterial.

“There’s no orders,” Smith said. “Not anymore. Norway fell last night. The Navy’s gone. Command is gone. Only thing left is us.”

Nobody spoke for a moment.

Bradley broke the silence. “You mean we’re stuck?”

Smith nodded. “Behind enemy lines, surrounded, no hope of extraction.”

Dottie leaned back, exhaled smoke. “I’ve had worse dates.”

Wildman grinned. “At least they sent a good team.”

Zill looked at the battered faces, at the makeshift family they’d become.

“What now?” Dottie asked, voice quiet for once.

Haverchuck looked at Zill, then the rest. “Now we improvise.”

The Brigade sat in the dim light, licking wounds, passing cigarettes, and waiting for the next bad idea to arrive. Outside, the wind howled and the snow began to fall again.

They were the only show in town.

And nobody cancels the main event.

Chapter 14 — The Split

Smith lay flat on a cot scavenged from a first-aid station, the wool blanket kicked down to his knees. He was white as unbaked dough, breath hissing through clenched teeth. The tourniquet above his thigh had stopped the worst of the bleeding, but the bandage on his calf kept seeping, a fresh red island blooming every hour. He watched the men around him build barricades from wine crates and office furniture, their faces all pinched the same way—like dogs waiting for the boot.

The command center was a meat locker. They’d strung up blackout curtains over the windows, so the only light was a lamp hung from an upended rifle. The bulb’s glow made everyone look sick, like actors in a hospital picture just before the reel change. Near the wall, Bradley worked the phone, cranking the handle even though the line had been dead for hours. He kept at it, methodical, every thirty seconds, like maybe if he annoyed the ghosts enough someone would pick up.

Across the room, Dottie Betts and El Aguila de la Muerte took turns at the slit windows, keeping an eye on the outer yard. They rotated shifts every ten minutes. The last time Dottie came off rotation, she used the butt of a broom to knock the caked blood off her prosthetic, then propped her leg on a box and lit a Lucky. Rivera just hovered near the window, arms crossed, mask cinched tight against the cold. He hadn’t moved in an hour.

Elston Fowler was everywhere and nowhere. He paced from window to map table to the radio, always moving, never standing still more than two seconds. Zill watched him, arms folded, head back against the cold stone, trying to read the lines under the paint. Fowler’s face had gone tight, the eyes turned inward. Zill recognized the look—it was the same as the old-timers backstage, the ones who knew their time on the card was almost up.

At the far end of the room, Haverchuck held court with the three remaining British NCOs. He’d commandeered the biggest desk, swept off everything that wasn’t orders or ammo, and turned it into a campaign altar. His voice carried over the low hum of misery, every word a clipped command.

“We got nine men left, maybe four who can run at full speed,” Haverchuck said, tapping a pencil on the map. “If the Germans try another push, we fall back to the kitchens and hold as long as we can. After that, it’s close-quarters.”

A sergeant from Liverpool nodded, face set. “We’ll make them pay for every inch, sir.”

Haverchuck grunted approval, then looked over at Zill. “You and your people, stick close. We may need your muscle for the last stand.”

Zill just nodded. No wisecrack, no flinch.

The quiet broke when the door slammed open, letting in a draft of snow and the metallic taste of outside. It was the telegraph operator—he’d survived the beach by hiding in a collapsed guardhouse, and now he was shivering, hands fluttering like he’d just done a week in the freezer.

Haverchuck didn’t bother with small talk. “What is it?”

The operator held up a scrap of paper. “Confirmation, sir. It’s official. The government’s signed the capitulation. Full surrender.”

Nobody spoke. Not even Dottie, who had never let a silence go unmolested.

From his cot, Smith laughed once — a dry, wrong little sound. “Told you,” he said. “Only the dead are in on the punchline.”

The operator held out the paper, arm trembling. Haverchuck snatched it, read fast, then crumpled it and hurled it into a corner. “To hell with this.” He slammed his fist down, making a bottle on the desk jump and shatter. “They think they can just fold? Not while I’m breathing.”

He shot to his feet and pointed at the Liverpool sergeant. “Ready your men. We’re not waiting to die in this tomb.”

“Sir?” The sergeant’s voice wavered.

Haverchuck spat the words. “We’re going to Oslo. If the government wants to quit, let them. We’ll take the damn city back ourselves.”

Dottie snorted. “You got a plan for that, boss?”

Haverchuck ignored her, grabbing his gear and slinging it over one shoulder. He barked at the Brits: “Grab what you can carry. We march in fifteen minutes.”

The men moved with the speed of the condemned. One started to protest, then thought better and just went for the ammo crates.

Fowler appeared at the edge of the table, blocking Haverchuck’s path. “Sergeant.” His voice was low, almost calm. “You’re making a mistake.”

Haverchuck glared. “You got something to say, say it.”

Fowler put both hands on the table, knuckles whitening. “The mission isn’t Oslo. It never was. You saw what the Nazis brought here—those Iron Pursuers, the ones who never speak, never take off the mask? You think that’s standard infantry?”

Haverchuck set his jaw. “What are you getting at, Wildman?”

Fowler didn’t blink. “They’re after the artifact. The Megingjörð. I’ve seen the patterns. If they weren’t here for it, why would they commit these assets, why take the fortress at all? If we leave, they get the prize.”

Dottie, from the side, nodded. “He’s right. This whole show—” she waved at the ruined room, the dying men, “—wasn’t about the fortress. It was about what’s underneath it.”

Zill shifted in his chair, but didn’t speak.

Haverchuck looked from one to the next, contempt etched in every line. “You think this is about a piece of jewelry? You think that’s why we lost a battalion?” He barked a laugh that came out half-mad. “This is war, not some fake wrestling match!”

Fowler bared his teeth. “Better a fake match than a real defeat.”

Haverchuck stepped up, nose almost to Fowler’s. “When you’re ready to put your life on the line for something real, let me know.” He shoved past, knocking Fowler’s arm aside, and stalked toward the exit. “The rest of you can rot here if you want.”

Smith tried to sit up, failed, and sagged back. His eyes tracked the dust motes in the lamp beam. “He’s wrong,” he mumbled. “He’s so wrong.”

Nobody moved for a long time. The only sound was the steady drip of water from a cracked pipe, the slow heartbeat of the fortress dying around them.

In the lamplight, in the wreckage of the plan, more than one decision was quietly being made.

Zill watched from the doorway, arms folded, leaning in the shadow while the argument between Haverchuck and Fowler crackled like radio static. The two men squared off over the map table, voices low but savage, the air so thick with anger you could taste it. The British sergeants kept their distance, heads down, feigning busyness as they stuffed grenades and rifle clips into battered webbing. Nobody looked at Zill. He liked it that way.

When the others peeled off to scavenge supplies, Zill pushed from the door and moved toward Haverchuck, who was already gathering his own gear. Haverchuck didn’t see him coming, and for a second Zill almost tapped the man on the shoulder, the way a kid does when he wants a dance. Instead, he just spoke.

“Sergeant. I’m coming with you.”

Haverchuck didn’t turn. He buckled the last strap on his kit, then grunted, “Why.”

Zill planted his boots, squared his shoulders. “I want to finish it. Like a real soldier would.”

Haverchuck eyed him, no softness. “Thought you were sticking with the circus freaks.”

Zill ignored the barb. “They have their mission. So do you. I’m not leaving you shorthanded.”

A silence. Haverchuck considered, chewing his words, then finally nodded, once. “Grab a weapon and find a helmet that fits.”

Zill grabbed a Lee-Enfield from the dead pile, checked the bolt, then shouldered it. He found a British tin hat and jammed it down, hard enough to bite his brow. For a split second, he felt like an imposter. The next second, it was gone.

Haverchuck led the men out. Zill fell in line behind the Brits, who all glanced at him, then away, as if he’d suddenly grown fangs. No one said a word.

The main corridor out of the fortress was blasted, scorched black with smoke and cordite. The only light was a single storm lantern at the exit, its flame sputtering in the cold draft. Haverchuck stopped there, checked his watch, then motioned them onward. Zill followed, boots echoing off the tile. He didn’t look back at the others—didn’t want to see their faces.

Outside, the wind cut sideways, stinging exposed skin. The snow had turned slushy at the shore, mixing with seaweed and blood from the earlier fighting. The landing craft was half-submerged, idling. The coxswain, a skinny blond kid with a nasty shiner, spat in the water and gestured for them to hurry.

Zill slogged through the surf, boots filling with icy water. His feet went numb in seconds. He climbed aboard, collapsed on the wet bench, and cradled the rifle in his lap. The Brits piled in around him, faces hollow with cold and fatigue.

The coxswain yanked the throttle, and the craft jerked out into the fjord. Spray lashed over the bow, soaking everyone. Zill shivered, but gripped the rifle tighter.

He risked one glance back. On the shoreline, Fowler, Bradley, Dottie, and Rivera stood in a ragged line. Fowler’s jaw was set, arms loose at his side. Dottie’s hands were on her hips, chin jutting with challenge. Bradley hunched his shoulders and scowled, hair blowing wild in the wind. Rivera was a statue, arms crossed, mask hiding any sign of what he felt.

Zill met their eyes just long enough to see the message in each one.

Fowler: regret, then stubbornness.

Bradley: jealousy or maybe betrayal.

Dottie: pure, radioactive rage.

Rivera: a flicker of something like loss.

The boat picked up speed. The shore receded. The four shapes stood frozen, even as the spray and wind tried to erase them from view.

On the boat, Zill stared down at his boots, water squelching inside, and wondered if the numbness creeping up his legs was from cold or something deeper.

Haverchuck slid onto the bench across from him, voice flat and low. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Zill didn’t answer.

Haverchuck leaned in, elbows on knees. “You’re not going back. Not to your pals, not to the ring, not to anything.” He nodded at the battered helmet on Zill’s head. “This is the only place you belong now.”

Zill closed his eyes. For a second, he saw his mother at the window, saw the medals on the wall. He opened them again, letting the cold burn the old ghosts out.

The boat engine roared, drowning everything else. The fortress shrank behind them, a gray lump on the horizon.

On shore, Dottie spat into the wind, then turned her back. Bradley watched her go, then shook his head, muttering something that was lost in the gale. Fowler lingered a moment longer, then squared his shoulders and walked up the path, every step saying “screw you” to the world.

Rivera was the last to leave the shore, head bowed, arms still folded.

The boat tore through the chop, carrying Zill and the soldiers toward Oslo, toward whatever waited. Zill felt the cold settle in, deep and permanent.

He clung to the rifle, and to nothing else.

They regrouped in what was left of the command center, four wrestlers and a busted lamp. The air was heavy with the stink of cold sweat, cordite, and disappointment. The windows glowed with dying day; dust motes twisted in the stagnant light. All the good chairs were gone, smashed or burned for heat. The only thing left in the center of the room was a battered table, scrawled with the ghosts of old strategies and the stains of new blood.

For a long time, nobody said a word. Fowler stood by the window, eyes fixed on the horizon as if he could drag Zill’s boat back by the force of will alone. Dottie squatted on a crate, rolling a shell casing between her fingers. Bradley wandered the perimeter, checking for anything left worth looting or breaking. Rivera leaned on the table, mask up, breathing in the silence.

It was Rivera who finally moved. He rapped the table twice, then laid one of his printed cards flat in the middle of it: DO WE CONTINUE? OR WAIT FOR ZILL TO COME CRAWLING BACK?

Bradley shrugged. “I give it three days before they’re out of rations and start eating each other.”

Dottie spat, the glob arcing through the air and smacking a Nazi helmet left on the floor. “Who needs ‘em? I’ve been underestimated my whole life. If I want something, I take it.”

Bradley snapped his fingers, as if inspired. “There you go. That’s the spirit.” He reached into his duffel, fished out the championship belt, and set it on the table. The gold caught the last light of day, dazzling for a second.

“Besides,” he said, running his fingers over the faceplate, “I’ve got the only belt that matters right here.”

Rivera smiled under the mask, tapped the gold faceplate once, then shook his head and shaped something wider with both hands — they had not come here for a belt. Not that kind.

Bradley gave a dramatic sigh. “Always the purist.”

Dottie kicked the Nazi helmet across the room. It clanged off the wall, left a chip in the plaster. “We search the fortress. If the belt is here, we find it. If it’s not, we find something better to do with our time.”

Fowler finally turned from the window. His face was blank, but his eyes were old and cold. “Zill’s not coming back,” he said.

“Not our problem,” said Dottie. “He wanted to be a hero. Now he’s a dead one.”

Bradley lifted the belt, slung it over his shoulder. “Show must go on.”

They filed out, Dottie leading with a heavy step, Bradley close behind, Rivera silent as a shadow. Fowler paused at the door, looked back at the empty room. For a second, his face cracked, just a hair, the lines deepening.

Then he shut the door behind him, the sound final.

In the hallway, the four fell into a loose formation, neither a team nor enemies, just survivors of the same circus. They moved through the dim fortress, eyes sharp, nerves raw, ready for whatever waited in the dark below.

Outside, night crept over the snow. The world was cold, but inside the fortress, the four wrestlers walked together.

They had a mission. On a night like this, that passed for enough.