Shadows in the mist, p.1
Shadows in the Mist, page 1
“Combining Masonic history, mysticism, and Nordic rune-lore, Moreland’s tale of a world at war is equal parts horror story and spine-jangling thriller. An adventure not to be missed!”
—James Rollins,
New York Times bestselling author of Map of Bones and Black Order
“Band of Brothers meets The Da Vinci Code meets F. Paul Wilson’s The Keep…Moreland weaves together the best elements of military, supernatural, and religious conspiracy genres, staking out a new territory all his own.”
—T. L. Hines, author of Waking Lazarus
“There’s a solid story here—one that mixes elements of Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay and the fast-paced thrillers of John Saul.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A superbly written novel that will grip the reader’s imagination and not relinquish its grasp until the end…Brian Moreland’s exciting narrative style and exceptional writing skills make Shadows in the Mist an unforgettable read.”
—Shane Simon, author of The Prophecy
“A captivating tale of suspense and horror that will chill you to the bone and leave you wanting…more!”
—Ernest de l’Autin, author of Reach to the Wounded Healer
“A rocket-paced mystery.”
—Joseph P. Farrell, author of Reich of the Black Sun
“Moreland makes a name for himself as someone to watch out for in tomorrow’s horror field.”
—Bookgasm.com
“Brian Moreland is a major new talent.”
—The Horror Review
“Shadows in the Mist is a chilling horrorfest, written by a bright new talent in the horror genre…A terrific page-turner that combines the best aspects of mystery, dark suspense, and the historical thriller…A gripping, haunting read.”
—Gary Braver, bestselling author of Flashback and Skin Deep
“Fast-paced and tension-ratcheting, Brian Moreland’s Shadows in the Mist is a page-turner sure to satisfy even the most fickle thriller junkie! This one definitely won’t be collecting dust on your nightstand!”
—Deborah LeBlanc, author of Morbid Curiosity and A House Divided
Shadows in the Mist
Brian Moreland
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance at actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
SHADOWS IN THE MIST
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2006 by Brian Moreland.
Interior illustrations: Map by Brian Bodeker. Cross and runes by Brian Altman. Star of David on dollar graphics by Brian Moreland.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-4406-3499-4
BERKLEY®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
To my grandfather, Captain Henry “Hank” D. Moreland.
As a World War II pilot, he heroically flew C-47s
that dropped army paratroopers over France.
He survived to be my own personal hero.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
October 1944
The Hürtgen Forest, Germany
Part 1:Buried Secrets
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part 2:The Bone Field
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part 3:Life in the Green Hell
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part 4:Into the Mist
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Part 5:Wolves in Sheep’s Clothing
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Part 6:Revelations
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Part 7:Chaos
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Part 8:The Black Order
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Part 9:Immortal Combat
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Part 10:The Pact
Chapter 54
Memorial
Acknowledgments
Several publishing professionals worked with equal passion to deliver a quality book. I thank my agent Betty Anne Crawford at Books Crossing Borders as well as my Berkley editor, Michelle Vega. I also wish to thank my original editor, Karl Monger; Susan Malone; Liz Tufte; Scott “Skip” Rudsenske; Kathi Dunn; Ron “Hobie” Hobart; Les Edwards; Ed Zabel; Brian Altman; Brian Bodeker; and my publicist, Leann Garms. For German translations, thanks to Claire Hrabak-Brand.
For the invaluable WWII war stories, I wish to acknowledge the late Tex Smith, who fought as a sergeant with the 28th Infantry Division inside Germany’s Hürtgen Forest. I am eternally grateful for the opportunity of touring Germany and Belgium with German historian Albert Trostorf, Dutch historian Ron van Rijt, documentary filmmaker Julian Hudson of the BBC, and the veteran German soldiers of the 89th Infantry Division, Regiments 1055 and 1056. And lastly, I thank my grandfather, Captain Henry Dawson Moreland, for sharing memories that I know were painful.
Thanks to the many friends and family who have supported me: Tim Williams, Greg “Magick” Bernstein, Mystery Lemur, Neil O. Pflum, Mary Helen Leonard, Bart Baggett, Donza Doss, Dave Gulling, Jan Marszalek, Andrea Westerfeld, Carolyn Ash, Greta Moody, Pamela Rueda and the entire Rueda family—Roberto, Pamela, Beto, y Stefan—Val Hey, Scott Anderson, Blane Richard, and Gary Sleeper. Also, Bil Arscott, Laura Thomas, Asha Cobb, Silver Ra Baker, Eric and Jodi Kean, Brenda Kimbrough, Debbie Autin, Paula and Kenneth Chin, Mack and Carolyn Rudsenske, Paul and Dawn Richardson, Laura Moreland, David Alexander, and my niece Saxon.
My extended family at White Bluff: Jim and Dyann Smith, Toni and Ted Wilson, Madeleine and Glen Lively, Toni and Ken Wengler. The wonderful ladies of the Wild Bunch and their husbands: Bill and Betsy Torman, Dale and Luann Westerfeld, Tom and JoAnn Reedy, George and Maura Collins, Dale and Judy Moore, and Patti and Keith Moreland. I especially wish to thank the ladies of “the Bookies” book club for their support: Betsy Torman, JoAnn Reedy, Judy Moore, Luann Westerfeld, Maura Collins, Patti Moreland, Linda Watson, Sarah Torbett, Cynthia Redden, Nancy Gibson, Ann Duncan, and Pam Hughes.
I also wish to thank a very special teacher, George Klotz, and his Honors English students up in Syracuse, New York: Lauren Candee, Jackie Cavender, Alan Chargin, Meghan Coholan, Lindsey Day, Caitlyn Drumm, Amy Hegan, Leora Kenney, Kelsey Klopfer, Elissa Leathers, Tyler Massaro, Mary McAfoose, Chris Nelson, Audrey Owens, Angela Passamonte, Melissa Petti, Marc Schoeberlein, Brent Scott, Mark Seeber, Meredith Stevens, and Erin Wohlers.
My writing was greatly influenced by these mentors and fellow writers—John Saul, Mik
Finally, I wish to acknowledge my parents, Patti and Keith Moreland. Thank you both for standing behind me in my pursuit to become a novelist. I’m so happy to share this dream with you and everyone I know.
All the best,
Brian Moreland
* * *
occult n (1923): matters regarded as involving the action or influence of supernatural or supernormal powers or some secret knowledge of them
—Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary
Cult of the Black Order
During the 1930s and 1940s, the Nazis cultivated a fascination with the occult and mind control. Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler, leader of the SS military, appointed several known occultists into his inner circle. One such occultist was writer and runologist Karl Maria Wiligut. Together Himmler and Wiligut created esoteric rituals for the SS ceremonies, designed the death’s head ring bearing the skull and crossbones, and turned the Wewelsburg Castle in Westphalia, Germany, into a Nazi Camelot.
Studies in the occult fueled a secret obsession. In 1935 Himmler formally established an occult research division, the Ahnenerbe-SS. With over fifty departments devoted to scientific studies, teams of Nazi scientists crusaded across India, Tibet, China, South America, and Nordic countries such as Iceland to locate archeological proof of the Nazis’ bizarre historical fantasy—that they were true descendants of mythical supermen known as the Aryan race.
The SS occultists, known as the Black Order, shared Hitler’s vision of the Thousand Year Reich—the Nazi plan to cleanse the planet of every race not considered of “pure” German blood. Believing they were destined to become the Aryan master race, the Nazis murdered millions of Jews, Gypsies, Freemasons, and Bolsheviks, igniting the flame that would spread without control and build into the Second World War.
* * *
Prologue
August 1944
SS Headquarters, Wewelsburg Castle
The castle doors creaked open for the angel of death.
Two Nazi guards yanked the leashes of their snarling Dobermans and stepped back. “Guten Abend, mein Herr.”
Keeping a wary eye on the dogs, Manfred von Streicher entered the castle gripping a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. The heavy doors shut behind him, sending a cascade of otherworldly echoes resounding through the stone fortress. Von Streicher shuddered.
No turning back now.
He marched alone through the grand hall of Teutonic Knights. Armored sentries wielding swords and iron spears loomed on pedestals on either side. Von Streicher hastened past them, his boots clumping across the stones. His hand, bearing the death’s head ring, tightened around the briefcase handle. The handcuffs chafed his wrist. The stiff collar of his black tunic constricted his throat. Taking controlled breaths, he wound through the serpentine corridors. The shadowy reaches of the castle moaned as if disturbed by his presence.
This is madness, Manfred. For God’s sake, turn back! Destroy the research.
And what? Defy the Reich? Himmler will have me skinned alive!
Von Streicher stopped before a set of colossal double doors. Voices murmured on the other side, then laughter erupted. They’re in a cheerful mood tonight. Hate to spoil a good party. Von Streicher slicked back a few wind-blown hairs and opened the doors.
The laughter stopped. Goblets and silverware clinked on the round table. A dozen black-clad officers fixed their Aryan eyes upon the messenger in the doorway.
Von Streicher raised his arm. “Heil Hitler!”
Seated at the far side of the round table, Himmler scowled and checked his watch. “SS-Hauptsturmführer Von Streicher, you’ve missed three courses.”
“My deepest apologies, Reichsführer. My plane was delayed in Norway. A storm—”
Himmler waved his hand dismissively. “Show us the designs.”
“Right away, mein Herr.” Von Streicher set the briefcase on the table, pulled a tiny key out of his gums, and opened the case. “My expedition in Iceland has led us to a breakthrough discovery.” Von Streicher removed a stack of photographs and a dossier.
Reichsleiter Alfred Rosenberg grinned from across the table. “What is it this time, Von Streicher—more Nordic cave paintings?” Chuckles circulated among the men.
Von Streicher passed around photos. “Actually, Herr Rosenberg, I combined your research with mine.” The photos were received with perplexed expressions all around.
A smile spread on Himmler’s face. “You actually got this to function?”
“Our testing has proven successful on one prototype.” Von Streicher took the thirteenth seat at the round table, where a plate of cold lamb shanks and a goblet of red wine awaited him. He slid the plate to one side and gulped the wine.
Reichsleiter Rosenberg, holding a photo, released a nervous laugh. “But this is merely a thing of legend.”
Von Streicher smiled. “Like the World Tree, Yggsdrasil, legends derive from an acorn of truth. My team discovered the acorn. Now with the powers of Odin, we can produce the tree.”
Himmler said, “Not just a tree, gentlemen, an entire forest. We begin mass production immediately.”
Von Streicher choked on his wine. “With all due respect, mein Reichsführer, we are still in the early stages. My team needs more time—”
“No more research. We’ve got weeks before Allies and Soviets hit our borders. We must strike now with a Blitzkrieg that will shake the planet.” Himmler handed a map to Von Streicher. “Don’t bother to unpack, Manfred. You will be overseeing the entire operation at our new base camp.” On the map a red box indicated an area near the border of Germany and Belgium.
“The Hürtgen Forest?”
Heinrich Himmler grinned and raised his goblet. “Once we engage these weapons into the war, no army will withstand the might of the Reich. Heil Hitler!”
The Black Order raised their goblets. “Heil Hitler!”
Von Streicher held aloft his toast with a shaky hand. He glanced down at the map…from the ice fields of heaven to the forests of the Green Hell.
The angel of death is coming. And I’m bringing my demons with me.
October 1944
The Hürtgen Forest, Germany
Gray fog drifted across the rain-drenched battle zone, clashing with black tendrils rising from the smoldering village. Gunshots cracked. Bullets buzzed past Lieutenant Jack Chambers’s ears like swarms of angry hornets.
“This way!” he screamed at his platoon. “Move, move, move!” Chambers charged forward through the smoke and drizzle. Ducking behind the ruins of a brick building, he waved his men over.
“Krauts!” shouted one soldier.
“Take cover!” Chambers aimed his Thompson submachine gun over the chest-high wall.
Ra-ta-ta-ta-tat!
A dozen armed German silhouettes emerged from the buildings.
A metal storm strafed his platoon, chopping down several men. The ones who made it filled in around Chambers. “Base fire, everybody! Stay sharp!”
Sergeant Mahoney barked orders down the line. “You heard the man. Hit ’em with everything!”
The platoon fired over the chest-high wall. Several shadows fell backward, but more emerged to take their place. The enemy closed within fifty yards. A tank shell blasted a nearby wall. Dust drifted over the platoon, filling Chambers’s mouth with grit. His men fired madly at the fog.
