25-01-2004, 09:34
The building at 17 Hanover Street in London's North Quarter was nondescript; an office building dating back to the turn of the century, coated in four decades of coal dust and almost lost in the growing sprawl.
A perfect hideout for someone not wanting to be disturbed.
A lone man walked up to the door of the building, carrying a plain cardboard box in his arms. The man walked with a slight limp, as though he had recently twisted his knee. He was much like the building he stood in front of, in many ways. Completely unimpressive to look at; a plain wool suit, the non-color of dust or rain, blending in almost perfectly with the sooty walls. He could have been just another of the hundred-odd clerks on his way to work this dreary morning. He pulled a key from his vest pocket, and soon had the lock on the front door open. He pushed the box through the door with his shoe, giving a quick glance up and down the street as he did. Then he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
Just inside the door, hidden in the shadows from casual onlookers, sat another young man in a similar set of clothes. He too would have been unremarkable, except for what he had balanced across his knees; a Sten submachine gun. The little weapon, while certainly not attractive, was cheap and reliable, and a favorite of the SOE operatives who had made this building their headquarters. The guard stood as the other man entered, picking up the box he had been carrying. Both started toward the back of the first floor, which was littered with similar boxes filled with reams of old shipping orders, payroll ledgers, and newspapers. At the back of the room was a circular iron staircase leading up to the next floor. The two men headed up the stairs to the second floor. The contrast between the two was striking; desks and filing cabinets were neatly rowed along the edges of the room, with men and women sitting at each, reviewing telegrams, radio intercepts, and reports from Allied agents around the world. At the back of the room was a single office, with the name "P. Galligher, Maj." on the door. The man from the first floor handed the box to the other, saluted, and headed back down the stairs. The other man headed for his office and set the box he had brought on the desk. Closing the door muffled the clack of typewriters and squeak of chairs to a bearable volume.
Major Sir Peter Galligher shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the chair opposite his desk. Next to go was the shoulder holster that carried his sidearm, a Colt .32 pistol. He then sat down behind his desk, wincing as he straitened out his bad leg. He had caught a bullet in the knee at Dunkirk, where he and a small Royal Commando detachment had destroyed key rail junctions to stall off a German attack long enough for the soldiers on the beach to escape. His actions had also won him the Victoria Cross for bravery, but he rather thought he would have liked to bring home the 5 commandos he had lost instead of a medal. Still, he couldn't complain too much; the doctors told him he had been lucky to keep his leg, let alone walk again. Shortly after recovering from his wounds, he had been assigned to the Special Operations Executive, and had been riding a desk ever since.
Galligher opened his eyes, letting the past fall away from him, leaving him in the present again. He reached up and removed the lid from the box on his desk. From the box he removed a stack of papers and a thick manilla envelope. The envelope was sealed in red tape and bore the "MOST SECRET: If tape is broken, contact your supervisor immediately!" stamp. He peeled off the tape and dumped the papers inside onto his desk. Most were reports from British, Walmingtonian, and Free French agents in Germany. Over the past months, these men and women had noted a large increase in the size of the garrison at Strassenberg Castle, near the Austrian/German border. Agents in other parts of the Reich had indicated that this was where the Germans had hidden away their top scientific minds, and those of their enemies that they had captured. This was where Hitler had them developing Germany's newest and deadliest weapons of war. The Juggernaut carrier, the Type-XV U-boat, the Me-262 jet fighter; all had been developed in this one location. There were rumors of other projects as well; just rumors, too fanciful to be real... but too dangerous to be ignored. Things like a bomber able to hit targets in Galliga from airfields in France and Germany, and a method of powering U-boats underwater for prolonged periods of time and at great speed. Things that could destroy the Allied war effort.
Galligher sighed, rubbing his face. He sat for a moment, thinking; finally, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"General Clark's office, Lt. Plumber speaking."
"Yes, this is Major Galligher. I need to schedule a meeting with the general; today, if possible...."
A perfect hideout for someone not wanting to be disturbed.
A lone man walked up to the door of the building, carrying a plain cardboard box in his arms. The man walked with a slight limp, as though he had recently twisted his knee. He was much like the building he stood in front of, in many ways. Completely unimpressive to look at; a plain wool suit, the non-color of dust or rain, blending in almost perfectly with the sooty walls. He could have been just another of the hundred-odd clerks on his way to work this dreary morning. He pulled a key from his vest pocket, and soon had the lock on the front door open. He pushed the box through the door with his shoe, giving a quick glance up and down the street as he did. Then he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
Just inside the door, hidden in the shadows from casual onlookers, sat another young man in a similar set of clothes. He too would have been unremarkable, except for what he had balanced across his knees; a Sten submachine gun. The little weapon, while certainly not attractive, was cheap and reliable, and a favorite of the SOE operatives who had made this building their headquarters. The guard stood as the other man entered, picking up the box he had been carrying. Both started toward the back of the first floor, which was littered with similar boxes filled with reams of old shipping orders, payroll ledgers, and newspapers. At the back of the room was a circular iron staircase leading up to the next floor. The two men headed up the stairs to the second floor. The contrast between the two was striking; desks and filing cabinets were neatly rowed along the edges of the room, with men and women sitting at each, reviewing telegrams, radio intercepts, and reports from Allied agents around the world. At the back of the room was a single office, with the name "P. Galligher, Maj." on the door. The man from the first floor handed the box to the other, saluted, and headed back down the stairs. The other man headed for his office and set the box he had brought on the desk. Closing the door muffled the clack of typewriters and squeak of chairs to a bearable volume.
Major Sir Peter Galligher shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the chair opposite his desk. Next to go was the shoulder holster that carried his sidearm, a Colt .32 pistol. He then sat down behind his desk, wincing as he straitened out his bad leg. He had caught a bullet in the knee at Dunkirk, where he and a small Royal Commando detachment had destroyed key rail junctions to stall off a German attack long enough for the soldiers on the beach to escape. His actions had also won him the Victoria Cross for bravery, but he rather thought he would have liked to bring home the 5 commandos he had lost instead of a medal. Still, he couldn't complain too much; the doctors told him he had been lucky to keep his leg, let alone walk again. Shortly after recovering from his wounds, he had been assigned to the Special Operations Executive, and had been riding a desk ever since.
Galligher opened his eyes, letting the past fall away from him, leaving him in the present again. He reached up and removed the lid from the box on his desk. From the box he removed a stack of papers and a thick manilla envelope. The envelope was sealed in red tape and bore the "MOST SECRET: If tape is broken, contact your supervisor immediately!" stamp. He peeled off the tape and dumped the papers inside onto his desk. Most were reports from British, Walmingtonian, and Free French agents in Germany. Over the past months, these men and women had noted a large increase in the size of the garrison at Strassenberg Castle, near the Austrian/German border. Agents in other parts of the Reich had indicated that this was where the Germans had hidden away their top scientific minds, and those of their enemies that they had captured. This was where Hitler had them developing Germany's newest and deadliest weapons of war. The Juggernaut carrier, the Type-XV U-boat, the Me-262 jet fighter; all had been developed in this one location. There were rumors of other projects as well; just rumors, too fanciful to be real... but too dangerous to be ignored. Things like a bomber able to hit targets in Galliga from airfields in France and Germany, and a method of powering U-boats underwater for prolonged periods of time and at great speed. Things that could destroy the Allied war effort.
Galligher sighed, rubbing his face. He sat for a moment, thinking; finally, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"General Clark's office, Lt. Plumber speaking."
"Yes, this is Major Galligher. I need to schedule a meeting with the general; today, if possible...."