VICTORY ROSE, Fighting Nemesis of Axis Tyranny in-
THE FUHRER'S FINAL TRUMPET
A searing book length novel by
STEPHEN ADAMS

When the Reich sounds its deadliest weapon, the Allied forces are rendered defenseless against the enemy onslaught.  America's only hope is its one woman secret army.  But how can even the Fighting Nemesis of Axis Tyranny help? For Victory Rose is trapped inside Berlin, fighting for her own life against SS execution squads, facing the fury of an outraged Nazi mob, drug a helpless prisoner into Hitler's secret bunker stronghold - with no hope of ever emerging alive!

U.S.  War Department File No.: 467QT208
Subject: Hardwyck, Victoria Rose, Major, W.A.C.  (a/k/a: Victory Rose)
CLEARED FOR PUBLIC DISTRIBUTION - Auth.  U.S.  Sec'y of War

CHAPTER I
ITCHING FOR ACTION

Victory Rose stood on a low stage, holding a pointer, before a wall of enlarged photographs.  A crowd of reporters watched intently as she explained her most recent mission, in which she had led her squad of rugged commandoes in a raid on a factory producing rocket-propelled munitions for the German Army.  During the raid, she had single-handedly saved her men from death in a nearly escape proof flamethrower trap and had captured a top special agent who had been a thorn in the side of the Allies for years.  Her accomplishment had undoubtedly saved the lives of scores of servicemen and possibly shortened the war.
Victory Rose was an amazing specimen of young, American womanhood.  She was tall, at six foot, and undeniably well built, military life having in no way tempered her luscious curves.  She wore her parade uniform of star-spangled military blouse, low-cut and form-fitting; clingy red and white striped trousers that accented the length of her shapely legs and ended in fetchingly severe high heeled boots.  Her crimson gloved hands pointed out the most important features on the photographs behind her.  Rose's fresh, lovely face was perfectly made up and framed by a gleaming mass of lustrous, chestnut curls.  The effect was topped off by her sparkling, blue eyes and big, American smile.  She stood tall and proud, like a patriotic heroine out of the comic books.
She finished her presentation and cast an open look at the crowd of men who stood before her with their note pads and cameras.  "And now, do you have any questions, gentlemen?" she asked.
There was some nervous laughter and elbowing.  Finally one of the reporters raised his hand.  Victory Rose singled him out with her pointed finger.
"Major Hardwyk," he asked, "a lot of our lady readers back home put in some long, hard hours doing factory labor and it's pretty tough for them.  I've gotten a lot of letters asking ... ahem ... asking ... if you can pass on any makeup tips for the working girl.  You always look so great in your pictures back home."
Victory Rose's flashing smile became rather frozen as she rapped out a prepared answer.  Another reporter raised his hand and was signaled to proceed.  The man leaned forward with his pen ready to take down her reply to his question.
"Major Hardwyk!  Is it true that ladies in France have an easier time getting silk stockings than American women? It's being said that American soldiers are bringing in special shipments and distributing them in exchange for ... favors."
Another prepared answer addressed this question as Victory Rose's teeth were bared in something that began to look less and less like a friendly smile.
"Major Hardwyk," called a third.  "Our readers back home want to know your thoughts on this..."
Victory Rose leaned forward to hear what subject had piqued the curiosity of the American newspaper reading public.
The reporter let fly his question, "Is it true that tall girls have a harder time getting a man?"
Victory Rose's scarlet-gloved fingers began to clench.
* * *
"Sergeant, you'll never know how good it feels to get back to the front!"
Victory Rose was speaking to Sergeant Cleveland, the tough noncom who did the dirty work of managing her commando outfit.  He shrugged his shoulders and nodded while trying to concentrate on cleaning his tommygun.  The major could sound off if she liked.  He didn't blame her for hating the press conferences she was ordered to give, but it wasn't his place as an enlisted man to get too involved.  Her attempts at camaraderie were well-intentioned, he knew, but sometimes left him feeling a bit uncomfortable.  Officers should do their grousing among their own peers.  Still, he knew that Victory Rose really had no peer in the U.S. Army.
The time was mid-April, 1945, and the Major had returned to her unit in their bivouac near Mannheim, from which they were soon to embark on their last mission in the European Theater - parachuting into the Alps near Berchtesgaden where Allied Intelligence believed Hitler to be gathering forces and preparing an impregnable fortress for the Nazis' last stand.  If he succeeded, the war could last all summer and through the winter, even with the rest of Germany under Allied control.  If Victory Rose was able to get in and kill, or better yet, capture, the mad Fuhrer, it was hoped that resistance would collapse and the German Army would offer its unconditional surrender before the end of spring.
Gone now, was Victory Rose's star-spangled outfit.  Instead, she now wore the same olive drab uniform as the rest of the army.  Her only distinguishing mark was a blooming rose, stenciled in black ink on both shoulders of her jacket.  Her own closely bobbed, brown hair was no longer covered by the shining, feminine wig and her face had long since been washed clean of makeup.  There was no denying that she was still a beautiful woman, perhaps even more so now, in her natural state.  But without the flashy uniform she was also revealed to be a supremely tough and intelligent tactical commander.
Sergeant Cleveland appreciated his good fortune at being selected to serve with Victory Rose.  He had been aghast, as had most of the men in the unit, when he had first learned of his assignment.  It seemed the height of ridiculousness to serve under a female officer whom he had thought was nothing more than a uniformed showgirl.  He had soon learned to respect her though, amazed at her superhuman strength, speed, and endurance.  He was impressed by her intelligence and baffled by the speed with which her body healed the injuries she sustained in her battles against Axis foes.  There had always been rumors that she was the product of secret, army experiments, and that these were the source of her incredible physical and mental power.  Sergeant Cleveland had never learned the truth behind those rumors and Victory Rose never confirmed or denied them.  In fact, she refused to talk much at all about her life before the war.  But she capitalized on her notoriety to garner the very best in equipment and support for the men under her command.  Not only that, but she shared every hardship, never once taking advantage of the luxuries her status as an officer and a celebrity could give her.  In this way she had secured the absolute loyalty of her men, who respected her and relished the unique and exciting adventures they shared with her.
For the past few weeks now, they had been preparing for what would be their greatest mission.  In absolute secrecy they had been practicing parachute jumps in the roughest country, mountain climbing, and fighting on skis.  Now they were checking and rechecking their equipment while they waited for the Go order.
All around her now, Victory Rose could feel the men's tension as they waited.  Every one of them wanted to get started and get this mission over with.  Sitting with the Major and Sergeant Cleveland were the men who had been with her the longest.  Cleveland, of course, had been with her since they had battled Rommel's desert forces in the North African campaign.  But nearby were Beau and Moses, the southerner and the hard-eyed negro.  Bitter racial enemies when they had joined the unit, the fires of combat had welded an unshakeable friendship between them, though neither would admit it.  DiMartino lounged nearby.  Sly and tough as a cheap steak, the little Italian from the slums of New York seemed to possess every skill imaginable with a knife.  Cowboy Larimer and Coochy, the medic, wolfed down C-rations under a tree just a few yards away.  Their casual attitudes aside, Victory Rose knew that each one of them was eager to carve a notch for Uncle Adolph on the stock of his carbine.
The distant buzz of a motorcycle engine broke the silence of the afternoon, growing into snarling roar as the big machine drew near.  Obviously the driver recognized Victory Rose, for he slid to skidding halt only a few yards away from the little group.
"Boy, ya'll watch where you're slingin' gravel with that thing," yelled out Beau.
The motorcycle courier ignored him, turning his attention to a pouch from which he drew out a folded envelope.
"Major Hardwyk?" he asked.
"That's right, corporal," acknowledged Victory Rose.
"Message from General Wingate, Ma'am."
"Hand it over, corporal" she said.
The corporal saluted smartly and offered her the envelope.  Victory Rose tore it open and shook loose the paper inside.  After a brief glance, she stood up.
"Okay soldier," she said.  "I'm coming with you.  Hop into the sidecar.  I'm driving."
The men exchanged glances as Victory Rose climbed on the machine and gunned the engine.  With brief nods, they acknowledged their shared thought, that the time had come.  The Major was being summoned to receive the official order that would send them winging south for the mission that would put an end to their three and a half years of war.  Their eyes sparkled with anticipation.  Only Sergeant Cleveland gave the messenger a hard look.
With the engine blasting out a feral growl, Victory Rose swung the heavy motorcycle around.  Cleveland noted with wry amusement that the corporal from headquarters was already looking a little pale.  He raised his hand in something halfway between a wave and a salute.  Victory Rose returned the gesture.
"I'll be right back, men," she called.  The last word was drowned in a vicious roar as the motorcycle suddenly leaped into motion.  The corporal hung on for dear life.

CHAPTER II
BRIEFED FOR THE MISSION

By the time Victory Rose slid the big motorcycle to a halt outside General Wingate's HQ, the young courier was white-faced with sheer terror.  As usual, it had not occurred to Rose that everyone was not able to lead life at her breakneck pace.
"See, Corporal?" she laughed.  "All that shrieking was for nothing.  We're here in one piece and in record time to boot."
The corporal tried to speak, but gave up after a couple of efforts and merely nodded.  Victory Rose laughed at the man's panic over what for her had been a nice, little afternoon ride in the country.  She hopped off the bike and strode into the big farmhouse that General Wingate had commandeered.
The sergeant acting as Wingate's secretary rose to his feet and offered to show her into the general's office.  "The general is expecting you, Major," he snapped out.  "If you'll step this way please..."
But Victory Rose brushed past the man as if he hadn't been there.  She rapped smartly on the office door and then walked in without waiting for an answer.
General Wingate was seated at his desk.  The general did not like being intruded upon while he was working.  He glanced up at the sudden interruption with eyes like cold, wet slate.  As soon as he recognized Victory Rose though, his fleshy jowls spread in what was intended to be a friendly grimace.
"Vickie!" he boomed, "When are you ever going to learn a little military courtesy?"  He smiled as he returned her salute.
Very few were permitted to address Major Hardwyk as "Vickie," and General Wingate only rated the privilege because, since he was her commanding officer, she couldn't do much about it.
"Reporting as ordered, General," she rapped out.  Her eyes glowed with anticipation.  "Do we go?"
"Sit down, Major," answered Wingate.
Rose sat down, obediently.  Her high mood of excitement had just crashed like a Messerschmidt with a gang of Mustangs on its tail.  She had served with the general long enough to know that this was not the prelude to her hearing the news she had awaited for so many tense weeks.
"Change of plans, Major," began the general.  "Orders from the top.  Your mission's scrapped as of now."
"On hold, sir?" she asked.
General Wingate ignored the question.  Instead of answering, he flipped a big, black and white photograph onto the desk in front of her.
"What do you make of that?" he asked.
Victory Rose gave the photo a quick once-over.  It showed a low altitude aerial view of smashed ruins that stretched as far as the eye could see.  She sighed, for she had seen far too many of these pictures over the past few years.
"It's a bombed out city, sir."
"Very good, Major.  In fact, this is Berlin," said the general, with a little edge of sarcasm in his voice.  He leaned over the desk and tapped on the photo with one stubby forefinger.  "But what do you make of that?"
Victory Rose looked again.  Distracted by her disappointment over the cancelled mission, she had allowed herself to miss some glaring details.  There was the Reichstag and the Kroll Opera.  She was looking at a photo of the government section of the German capital.  And there was one more important feature.  General Wingate pointed it out to her now.  She looked more closely and saw what he meant.  A peculiar structure blossomed in the center of the rubble field.  It looked for all the world like the amplifying bell of a giant horn - a tuba or maybe a trumpet.  Only this horn appeared to be as big as a house.  She looked back up at Wingate and raised her eyebrows, questioningly.
"Ah, I see that I've got your attention now, Major.  Good," said the general.  "We've bombed this thing flat four times.  Each time the Germans have rebuilt it within twenty-four hours."
Rose stared at the photograph.  Apparently the hornlike structure had an importance she had not guessed.  It didn't look like any sort of gun, yet she knew from experience that the Nazis had been developing weapons and technology far ahead of their time.
"A new kind of radar?" she guessed.  "Or some kind of air defense?"
"Right the second time," said Wingate.  "But its much more.  I've got some footage I want you to see." He looked up and bellowed, "Sergeant Picket!"
The general's secretary stuck his head in the door.  Realizing what his commander wanted, he disappeared for a moment and reappeared with a movie projector which he set up on General Wingate's desk.  A sheet had already been pinned against the wall to serve as a movie screen.  Once the sergeant had closed the drapes, he bustled out and shut the door behind him, leaving Rose and Wingate alone in the office.
The general pressed the switch that set the machine whirring.  As the grainy images flickered before her, Victory Rose saw she was looking out over a city in ruins, presumably another view of Berlin.  On the horizon, a few black dots quickly grew until she saw that they were actually a squadron of twin-engined, Russian bombers with some fighter planes flying escort.  Since the film had no soundtrack, the warplanes advanced silently, sweeping in low over the wrecked urban landscape.  Suddenly, a flash of light seemed to flow like a wave from one side of the picture to the other.  As the wave passed them, the Russian planes instantly nosed down and dived straight into the ground, where they crashed into the broken walls and exploded.  The film ended and Wingate opened the curtains to let in the sunlight once again.
The general spread his hands.  "Well?" he asked.  "What do you think?"
"I've seen a lot of funny things in the last few years," answered Rose.  "But that's a new one."
"That film," continued General Wingate, "was smuggled out of Berlin just two days ago while it was still possible to get through the Russian lines.  The man who sent it is a scientist assigned to that project.  Seems he panicked at the thought of falling into the hands of our eastern allies." Wingate chuckled.
"That's understandable, sir," smiled Rose.  "What's his story."
The general opened a file of papers and cleared his throat.  "I'll let you review this material yourself, of course, when we're done here.  But the short version is the Germans have developed some kind of ray.  Our science boys explained it to me as an electro-magnetic shock wave, whatever that means.  According to our man in Berlin they code-named it the War Trumpet.  Dramatic, eh?  Anyway, somehow it knocks out electrical systems.  Don't ask me how.  When those Russians flew through the flash of light you saw, every electrical component on their planes stopped functioning.  The motors died and the planes were too low for the pilots to bail out.  There was nothing they could do but crash."
Rose looked skeptically at the photo again.  "But sir, you say this thing has been bombed flat four times already.  How could they rebuild it so fast?  And why in the same place when they know we'll just come back and hit it again?"
"This is just what shows above ground," said Wingate.  "The scientist says this horn thing can be built quickly out of materials easily available in the city.  The really important part, the generator, is buried in a bunker under about forty feet of reinforced concrete, directly below.  So far we haven't been able to crack it."
"It's a tough target, alright," Rose agreed.  "But what's its range?  The film showed that it can knock out low flying planes and probably motorized transport, but it looks like it has a pretty limited range of effectiveness.  Those bombers got awfully close before it went off."
Wingate shuffled through the papers until he reached the page he sought.  "According to our scientist, the device has an effective range of hundreds of miles, given an adequate power supply.  He says the Germans have spent the winter hooking this thing up to giant engines in a huge, underground installation.  Apparently this was just a small test, to see how the weapon would function against enemy equipment in the real world.  They're getting ready to use it in a full scale attack on the Russian forces threatening Berlin."
"I see," Rose was looking at a map of Germany showing a general outline of the Russian forces ringing the Nazi capital.  "I suppose the Germans have some way of shielding their own equipment from this force?"
The general smiled.  "Wouldn't be much of a secret weapon without that, now would it?"  His expression became serious again as he continued.  "The scientist tells us the Germans keep their own equipment in special shelters.  The blast only lasts a few seconds and then it's safe to move out."
"So..." mused Victory Rose.  "They power this War Trumpet machine up and knock out all the Russians' electrical equipment within, say, fifty miles?"
General Wingate shook his head.  "Our friendly scientist claims," he emphasized the word, "that at full power this model of the weapon can knock out electronic systems over a range of nearly two hundred miles."
Rose's eyebrows shot up.
"Yes," agreed the general.  "I find it hard to believe, myself."
Rose nodded, "So, with the Soviets around Berlin paralyzed, the Germans mount a counter attack, smash the Russian spearhead, and drive the Red Army back to the Oder..."
"Reuniting Berlin with the rest of the Reich," continued Wingate, "and expanding the area from which they can draw power for this device, plus providing them with space in which they can build more of these things.  They could neutralize the Russians for ... say ... three to six months..."
"During which time they're free to deploy more forces against our advance from the west," said Rose.  "Which, combined with this shockwave power, would leave our forces unable to advance and defenseless against what's left of their motorized divisions..."
"Effectively destroying our ability to wage war in any modern sense and forcing us to agree to a separate peace, ending the war on their terms and leaving Hitler in power to cook up the next one!" Wingate finished the thought.
Victory Rose shook her head in disbelief.  "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
At the general's nod, she continued.  "Do you really believe they can pull this off?  It's pretty far fetched."
General Wingate closed the file and folded his hands on the desk.  He looked intently at Victory Rose and said, "Truthfully, no.  The Nazis are finished, if they'd just have the decency to admit it.  By now I don't think anything short of a divine thunderbolt can save the Third Reich.  And I imagine most of them realize that too, but they're like drowning men, grasping at straws."
"And so..." Rose met his gaze.
"And so, Major Hardwyk," said the general.  "We live in the real world.  This war will be over soon.  And sad to say, we need to be thinking about the next one.  Because you can bet that our allies to the east are."
Victory Rose nodded.
"The top Nazi scientists and their research are going to be up for grabs soon.  Someone's going to get their hands on that technology when the Germans surrender," said Wingate.  "Can you imagine a world in which the Soviet Union holds a power like that over our heads?"
"I understand what you're saying, General," agreed Rose.  "And so my mission is to go in and grab the plans?  Blow up the machine?"
"That's right," said General Wingate.  "The scientist who sent us the film, Dr. Ulrich, is ready to defect to the west and let us benefit from his research.  You're going in to bring him out.  You also bring back plans, photos, equipment, scientists, technicians, slave laborers, whatever you can."
"And what I can't bring back?" said Rose.
"You destroy," Wingate stately flatly.  "Everything.  Nothing is to fall into the hands of the Russians."
"And no one."
"That is correct," said Wingate.  "Now we both understand your mission."

CHAPTER III
JET WINGS OVER GERMANY

Victory Rose read through the file as she rode back to the camp where her men waited for her to return with the orders that would send them into action.  Much to the motorcycle courier's relief, she had elected to ride in the sidecar and let him do the driving so that she could examine the papers.
The Red Army was only days from completely encircling Berlin.  Soon the once great capital of the Third Reich would be swept away under the unstoppable hordes of the east ... and then?  Once the victors had finished carving up the Nazi empire between them, would there be nothing left for them but to turn against each other like two animals fighting over a kill? General Wingate seemed to think so and Victory Rose herself had no illusions about the benevolent intentions of Stalin and his regime.  The War Trumpet was probably too little and too late to save Germany now, but with another year, maybe two, of development it could turn into a war-winning technology that must not fall into the wrong hands.  It was vitally important to keep the secret of the electro-magnetic shock wave generator away from the Russians.
As they neared the camp, Victory Rose closed the folder and looked grimly ahead.  She knew there were two reasons why she had been selected for this mission.  The first was that her skills and abilities made her the single individual best able to get in and out of the beleaguered city with the scientist who designed the Nazi's secret weapon.  The second, she knew, was that she was expendable.  She could certainly get into Berlin and very probably destroy the generator.  After that, if she didn't make it out ... well, the war was nearly over anyway, and soon she would no longer be needed.  Knowing that this was a suicide mission, she determined that this was one job she would handle solo.
Sergeant Cleveland was waiting for her when she returned.  Rose saw him standing by the roadside when they pulled up.  His casual stance and sullen expression could not hide the watchful expectancy with which he eyed her.  After the years they had served together, they knew each other well.  Rose could see the almost imperceptible curtain of disappointment descend over his immobile features when he recognized the look on her face.  There was no fooling the old soldier.  He knew that plans had been changed.
"The mission's cancelled, Sergeant," said Victory Rose as she stepped out of the sidecar.  "You men sit tight here in camp.  You'll be receiving new orders soon, I think."
Cleveland fell into step beside her.  "What happened, Major?"
"I'm needed elsewhere.  I'm not at liberty to tell you any more, Sergeant.  I've seen to it that you men are being sent back.  The war in Europe should be over in a few weeks at most, and you're going to make it home in one piece."
"Major," protested the sergeant, "if you've been handed a rough assignment you'll need us there to back you up."
"Cleveland!" she snapped, "I've got enough on my mind right now.  You have your orders."  With that she stalked off, leaving the tough noncom to stare after her in consternation.
* * *
The German Air Force had built a big airdrome outside of Mannheim where a fighter wing had been based, back in the days when the Third Reich had an effective air defense system.  In the last days before it had been overrun by the American 3rd Army, a unit of experimental jet propelled aircraft had been stationed there in the false hope of protecting the Fatherland from the masses of Allied bombers that roamed the skies at will.  After the German Army had retreated from the area, the Americans had marched in and found a treasure trove of advanced aircraft to study.
Victory Rose's jeep roared in through the front gate of the air base, past the startled sentry.  She didn't stop until she skidded to a halt in front of the headquarters building.  With steel spring quickness, she bounded across the distance from the jeep to the front door.  As she entered the building, the captain on duty snapped her a salute.
"Major Hardwyk," he yelped.  "We hadn't expected you for another twenty minutes."
"I'm in a hurry, captain," she replied.  "Have you got my plane ready?
"Fueling it up now, Major," said the officer.  "Hop in the jeep and I'll take you right out."
As they rode out, the captain filled her in on the aircraft she would be flying.
"It's something brand new, a jet plane.  Fast as lightning.  I've seen the thing in flight, too.  It's just amazing.  The pilots we captured here say it can do five hundred miles an hour, easy.  At that speed you could be over Berlin in forty-five minutes."
"Just what the doctor ordered," said Victory Rose.
"We've fitted the plane with a drop tank for extra fuel," continued the captain, "so you can make the flight non-stop.  I've flown one of these myself, and they're pretty tricky but, like I said, fast as lightning.  You'll be over Berlin before anyone even knows you're coming.  It's got an ejector seat too.  You just press the button and Bang!  You're parachuting down to earth while the plane flies on and crashes somewhere down the line.  Amazing designers, these Germans.  Just amazing!"
When they pulled up alongside the little plane, Victory Rose wondered for a moment at the wisdom of flying this thing across Germany.  The design was certainly advanced beyond the general run of fighter planes she had seen, but the craft looked like it had been cobbled together on the spur of the moment.  The fuselage was of metal, but wings and other parts were simply plywood.  None of it was crafted to the standards she had come to expect from German engineering.  A big jet engine seemed to have been stuck on top as an afterthought.
"There you go, Major.  Ain't she a beauty?" asked the captain.
"Strange looking alright, but that doesn't matter," answered Rose, "as long as it gets me where I'm going."
The fuelers were finishing up their work as Rose walked up to the plane.  Moveable steps had been wheeled into place so she could reach the cockpit.  A young, blond man climbed up with her and introduced himself as one of the captured German pilots who had flown these craft.  Rose eyed him suspiciously.  He looked too young to be a fighter pilot, but he seemed to know the plane so she listened as he explained the controls and characteristics.  As an experienced pilot herself, she felt that she could handle the machine well enough to make the flight to Berlin.
So after donning flight gear and parachute, Victory Rose climbed into the cockpit of the jet and latched the canopy overhead.  The engine powered up until it was emitting a deafening screech.  The little airplane shook with the restrained power of the mighty jet engine.  At the signal, Rose began to roll forward.  She quickly picked up speed and in a moment the futuristic craft was shooting like an arrow down the runway and leaped up into the air.  Its airspeed and rate of climb were phenomenal.  Even when flying powerful Mustangs and Thunderbolts she had never experienced an exhilaration quite like this.  She guided the airplane in a wide, screaming circle over the airdrome, just to get a feel for the craft.  Then she set her course for the northeast, opened the throttle, and rocketed toward the horizon.
The Allied air forces had opened up a corridor for her, giving her the opportunity to cross Allied Controlled areas unmolested.  Ground forces had been instructed not to fire on a lone, German fighter in the area.  Unfortunately, most of the territory over which she would be flying was still in the hands of the Germans, or worse yet, the Red Army.  German gunners would most likely respect the black crosses painted on her wings and refrain from firing on her.  But those same black crosses would make her a prime target for the Russians.  Once she crossed their lines she could depend only upon speed and luck to help her reach her goal.  It was late in the day when she began her flight, and she hoped that dusk would make it slightly easier for her to get into the besieged city.
Below her, the miles flashed by with alarming speed.  Forests, farms, and towns slid beneath her as she held her steady course.  At one hundred miles out, she jettisoned the empty drop tank and felt the airplane's handling improve slightly without the added drag.  The speed was intoxicating.  She was crossing territory in minutes that would take hours by train, flying so fast that no other plane could hope to catch her.
As she followed the railroad line, Victory Rose gaped in wonder at the ruins of once-thriving cities.  Now they were nothing more than roofless, bombed out wastelands.  The destruction rained upon Germany by the wrathful Allies was terrible to behold.  But Rose had seen the horrors of Nazi tyranny first hand and felt little pity for those below.  They had sown the wind in the 1930s and now they reaped the whirlwind.  Had the Axis powers surrendered years ago, or better yet, never begun their arrogant march of conquest, this shattered land could be a happy and prosperous region now.
The fuel gauge was nearing Empty when Victory Rose sighted the outskirts of Berlin on the horizon before her.  The jet screamed over the southern suburbs with only minutes of powered flight left to it.  She had to get as close to Berlin's government center as possible before she ejected.  She climbed to get a better overview of the city, saw the bend in the Spree River, and aimed her little plane toward it.  As she was nearing the point where she would bail out, she looked to the east.  That was when she saw the three black warplanes flying in formation ... directly toward her!

CHAPTER IV
BARRELING INTO BERLIN

Victory Rose watched the three Soviet fighters turn to bear in on her lone aircraft.  She was over her jump zone in central Berlin now, with her fuel nearly gone.  A dog fight at this moment was the last thing she needed, but she had one on her hands anyway.  She must drive off or destroy these Russians before she could begin her mission.
Wrenching her little plane around, she shot skyward, faster than the Russian planes could climb.  As she wheeled back she saw them breaking formation, each pilot eager to be the one who made the kill.  But they did not yet know the speed of the German jet fighter.  Before they realized it, she was barreling down into them, red darts of flame dancing at the tips of her nose-mounted machine guns.  She loosed a torrent of heavy slugs into the fuselage of the centermost fighter.  The Soviet turned tail and fled, diving, flying low and fast over the shattered city.  But he was not fast enough to escape the punishing machine guns of Victory Rose.  The twisting, dodging warplane was lashed by a merciless blast of screaming lead.  Finally Rose veered off as flames erupted from the Russian's engine cowling and as she flashed by, the plane disappeared in a violent orange ball of fire.
Rose's plane screamed blue murder as she whipped it around in a tight circle and charged the remaining two fighters.  The Russians accepted the challenge and within a second the three warplanes were weaving a web of swirling destruction over the capital of the Third Reich.  Fighting so low they seemed almost to be rolling across the tops of the cracked walls, they loosed a wild spray of machine gun bullets that peppered the ruins below.  She had to admit, the Russians were good.  Even with her faster plane she couldn't out-fight them on her own.  And now she was well aware that she had only seconds of fuel left to keep her airborne.  Locked now in a death struggle, Rose could only think of trying to herd the Soviet fighters close to each other and then aim her craft directly at them, eject as they were occupied with scrambling away, and hope that she would be on the ground before they circled back.  And that plan would only work if she survived the fall, which was far from certain.  Right now she was too low for the parachute to do her much good even if it did have time to deploy.
As the battling warplanes swarmed each other in a tangled loop, Victory Rose suddenly felt her plane lose power.  The screaming jet engine fell silent.  Every instrument on her panel went dead and she felt the plane shudder as it lost airspeed.  Her frenzied mind's first thought was that her fuel was gone and she was now at the mercy of the Soviets' deadly fire.  But the Russians were dipping too, falling away, powerless.  Now Rose knew the true explanation.  Hitler's War Trumpet had sounded another destructive blast.  The mighty shock wave had swept over the airborne combatants and killed their engines before they had had the chance to kill each other.
Rose lost sight of the Russian planes as her own jet plane dropped like a stone.  With furious jabs, she tried the ejector seat button, but with no electronic signal to detonate the explosive bolts, it failed to respond.  Pulling back with all her strength at the control stick and searching frantically, she spotted the big East-West street through the center of Berlin that served as an airstrip in the isolated city.  Now she fought more desperately with the controls of her own plane than she had with the Soviet fighters.  Only grudgingly did the aircraft respond as it hurtled downward.  The nose lifted ever so slightly as she turned the clumsily gliding craft toward the wide street.  Rose's lips peeled back from her teeth in a terrible grimace as she pulled back with all her might on the stick.  The ground leaped up at her so fast she could see every broken shard of brick on the pavement.
When she hit, the impact slammed her forward with such force that her safety harness snapped and her head dashed against the canopy.  From that moment on she was unaware as the little plane bounced back into the air with a shock that tore the wooden wings away from the fuselage.  As it smashed back to the pavement, the jet engine was ripped loose and cartwheeled alongside the disintegrating fighter in a violent tumble that ended only when they plowed headlong into a stone wall and were half buried under a pile of shattered rocks.
For long minutes, the smoking wreck lay undisturbed.  There was no movement within the cockpit and a broad, red smear marked the plexiglass covering.  The crushed plane lay wrapped in silence until the quiet was broken by the tramp of hobnailed boots on the broken stones.
A troop of boys scrambled over the rubble to reach the downed jet fighter.  They were hard faced boys, hard eyed and hard handed, and they wore the uniform of the Hitler Youth.  A one-legged army officer toiled along behind them, but they scarcely needed his direction.  They had spent their childhood digging through rubble.
They set to work with picks and shovels and bare hands.  The wiry boys tossed the rocks aside with careless strength.  They worked quickly, for they had seen the fight and believed it was a German pilot who lay within.  With powerful heaves, they pried loose the canopy and tossed it aside.  Eager hands gently uncovered the pilot's face, removed the flying helmet.
The boys looked back at their officer in surprise as they realized that the pilot was a woman.  The officer hitched up to the wreck and peered for a long moment at the female face.  He sucked on the stumpy pipe he held clenched in his teeth as he pondered.  Germany had some female test pilots, but the Russians also used women in their fighting forces.  With a slight movement of his fingers he indicated that the boys should draw her forth from the cockpit.
When they had her stretched out on the cracked pavement, the officer looked her over again.  Too crippled to move easily himself, he motioned for the boys to pull off her heavy flight jacket.  When he saw the stenciled rose patches on her shoulders, he nodded and ordered one of the boys to run and fetch help.  The officer sagged on his crutches while he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe.  He wondered if discovering Victory Rose would mean a reward for him.  Then he wondered if a reward meant anything in a city that was about to be stormed by the Soviets.
* * *
Victory Rose stirred, then snorted and coughed as the powerful fumes of smelling salts took effect.  At first she registered only pain.  Her head throbbed like a red, hot anvil and fiery bolts flickered up and down her arms.  She tried to move and it took her a moment to realize that she couldn't.  By an effort of will, she forced her eyes to open half way.  After a time, the fuzzy images began to make sense.  There were lights, faces, her own arms standing straight up above her.  She was interested in her arms.  Her eyes traced them upward until her hands came into view.  They were tightly bound and tied to a pipe that ran overhead.
Her senses began returning.  She felt a pillow under her head and a thin mattress beneath her.  Rose looked up at the faces that surrounded her.  There was a doctor.  The rest were army officers in field grey.  Black crosses lurked at the throats of some.  SS runes winked evilly from their collars.  The faces smiled with a fiendish glee as they saw her return to consciousness.
"And so we meet again."
Rose recognized the voice from somewhere, but she couldn't force her mind to speed up its sluggish workings.  She knew she had heard it before ... ringing, passionate, full of hate and power.  Now it was old, wavery, yet still laced with a satanic malice.
"The American super-woman," continued the rasping voice.  "How fitting that you should join me now, for my last stand against the sub-humans."
Rose's eyes snapped up, suddenly clear.  She glared upward, her lips curling in an unconscious snarl.  She saw the man's face gazing down.  She recognized the arrogant sneer, the ridiculous moustache, the unruly forelock.  The eyes, pale and rheumy, still held some of their old, hypnotic power.  She knew the man.  His image was burned into her mind.  She stared up into the face of Adolf Hitler!
"You ... Here..." she mumbled.
"Where else would I be?" he asked.  "This is where I belong.  To win, or to die fighting with the last of the true Germans."
"You ... belong ... in Hell!" hissed Victory Rose.
Hitler bared his teeth in a malicious grin.  "Perhaps you will soon meet me there," he said.
A thin line of spittle made a silvery trail down his chin.  Rose saw how the once-mighty Fuhrer of the Thousand Year Reich had degenerated into a pathetic, trembling old shell of a man.  Yet his horrible, evil soul still burned within him like a dark star, spewing forth blackness for whatever little time he had left on this earth.
"Would you like to know what I have in store for you, young lady?" he asked.
"You filthy creep!" spat Rose.  "Whatever you do to me is nothing compared to what the Russians have in store for you!"
The trembling Fuhrer's eyes burned down onto her.  She felt his satanic emanations pressing her down like a weight.
"You will serve as an example and a rallying point for the German people," he growled.  "Perhaps your soul will even bear witness to the glorious end of our people from your enviable vantage point ... hanging from the Brandenburg Gate!"

CHAPTER V
GRAPPLING IN THE DUNGEON

Sergeant Cleveland was a hard and determined man.  His years of war had made him that way and without those qualities he would not have survived as long as he had.  He had long ago wrapped himself in a stony shell that protected him the way armor plating deflected danger from a tank.  He had little faith in the godlike superiority of commissioned officers.  From his point of view, most of them were fools or worse.  The good ones generally seemed to get killed off.
Still, he respected Major Hardwyk.  And after all the adventures and hardships he had shared with her, he cared about her too.  He didn't want her to have faced down death so many times over the years, just so that the top brass could kill her off in a crazy suicide mission only days from victory.  Cleveland feared that was the reason she had refused to take her men along with her on this one.
And so, on the evening she left, he stood at Victory Rose's desk and stared down at the folder she had so conveniently left behind.  He flipped through the pages.  A secret wonder weapon called the War Trumpet.  Orders to deny the Soviets access to this new technology.  Cleveland knew Berlin was done for, so this was no war-winning mission.  It was political.  Cleveland wore a sour expression as he read.
After thinking a long time, he called Moses and Cowboy Larimer into Major Hardwyk's quarters and closed the door.  He waited while they looked at the papers.
"Shooooot," breathed Larimer.  He looked up.  "How's she supposed to get out of there?  This ain't right, Sarge."
"No foolin' it ain't right," rumbled Moses.  "That's why she didn't take us with her.  She didn't figure she was coming back."
Cleveland agreed.  "No one's getting out of Berlin once the Russians close the ring.  She'll be stuck even if she does destroy the War Trumpet and escape the Germans."
"What do we do, Sarge?" asked Larimer.  "Going into Berlin after her isn't going to help.  Even if we do find her, one person probably has a better chance of getting out than a whole company."
"I thought of that, Larimer," answered Cleveland.  "We'd do more harm than good if we parachuted in there."
Moses was looking over the maps of the German and Russian positions.  "These up to date?" he asked.
Sergeant Cleveland shrugged.  "They're all we've got to go by.  I expect they're as good as anything else the army puts out, if that tells you anything."
The men smiled grimly and the sergeant continued.  "We can't help her in Berlin," he said, "but maybe we can help her get out ... if we're willing to call in some favors."
At the men's eager agreement, Sergeant Cleveland explained his plan.
* * *
An army medic had been summoned to patch Victory Rose up enough for her to appear in public.  As he cleaned off the blood and dirt, he was amazed to see that she was relatively unhurt after the violent crash she had survived.
"Perhaps what they say about you is true," he remarked, "that you are more than human.  I can hardly believe that you weren't killed outright.  A pity our SS doctors won't get to examine you."
Once the man had finished treating Victory Rose and pronounced her injuries to be relatively minor, her hands were untied from the overhead pipe and she was hauled off her cot.  Guards dragged her down a hallway where she was dumped roughly onto the floor of a bare cell.  The door was slammed shut and Rose was left in darkness with only her own thoughts for company.
Lying on the cold concrete with her hands and feet tightly bound, she drifted in and out of consciousness as her head throbbed maddeningly.  Even her powerful body would take some time to fully heal itself of the head injury she had suffered in the crash.  Rose chewed at her bonds, trying to win some measure of freedom, but the heavy leather straps did not yield.  After she guessed several hours had passed, she heard stealthy footsteps outside her cell.  Her eyes narrowed as she heard the rattle of a key, and saw the cell door open a crack.
A shadow imposed itself upon the lighted crack, and Rose felt curious eyes peeping in at her.  She waited in silence as the crack widened to admit a silhouetted form before the door was pushed shut again.  In the darkness, she heard a man's heavy breathing.
There was a rustling noise as the form knelt beside her.  She fought down a wave of revulsion as rough hands groped over her body.  Her buttons were unfastened one by one and as her chest was bared she felt hungry lips pressed to her neck.  Her flesh crawled as the hands slipped beneath her underclothing and squeezed cruelly at the firm flesh of her breasts.  The breathing became more ragged as the hands and lips continued to roam.  Blinded by the darkness of the cell, Rose could only imagine the man who crouched over her.  One hand slid down her belly and beneath the waistband of her pants.  She decided this had gone far enough.
She had lain so still that her molester believed her to be unconscious.  He wasn't expecting her knees to snap up in a lightning move and smash against the side of his head.  He screamed and reeled back.  Instantly, Rose coiled her body and then thrust out her legs in a savage kick that caught the man square in the chest.  He rolled across the floor and smashed into the heavy door.  It bounced open, not having been latched, and in the light, Rose recognized him as one of the guards who had tossed her in the cell.  She leaped upright.  She was still tied hand and foot, but crouched and ready to fight.
The guard dragged himself, cursing, to his feet and staggered toward her with his fists clenched and raised.  Victory Rose lifted her own fists, determined to knock him down again and again if he dared to touch her.  Unexpectedly, the door slammed open and light flooded the room.  The trim figure of an SS officer stood in the doorway.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.
The guard pointed at Victory Rose.  "She attacked me!" he yelped.  "I was just about to teach her a lesson."
The guard's head rocked back as he received a thunderous slap.  "Idiot!" barked the officer.  "Get out of here before I have you shot!"
The sullen guard shook his head to clear the stars.  He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it and closed his mouth again.  He cast Rose a threatening look as he limped out of the cell.  Once he was safely behind his superior's back, he cast that man a threatening look, too.  The officer did not deign to notice.
"You must forgive him," said the officer to Victory Rose.  "He is a fool, but he knows that within a few days he will be dead.  He must take what he can get while he is still able." He addressed her as one officer to another, seemingly unaware that she was a bound and condemned prisoner awaiting death in his dungeon.
"I suppose he is what you Nazis made him," snapped Rose.
Without speaking, the officer stepped close to her.  Rose braced herself for another attack, but with a single, swift movement, the officer reached out and tugged her undershirt down to cover her.
"Thank you," she stammered.
The officer rebuttoned her shirt.  "Sleep," he said, simply.  "I will see to it that you are not molested." With that, he turned and left Rose standing alone in the darkness.
A few hours later the door slammed open again and two burly SS men stepped into the cell.  Rose, who had not slept a wink, hunched against the wall.  But the two soldiers simply grabbed her arms and hauled her out and down the hall with them.  They laughed as if they were escorting her to a picnic.
"It's a beautiful day!" said one.  "You need some fresh air and sunshine after spending the night in that box."
The other one guffawed loudly and chimed in.  "Yes, a nice walk in the spring sunshine!  And when the walk is finished, a lovely, shady spot for you to rest!"
The first one winked merrily at Rose.  "In the shadow of the Brandenburg Gate!" he chortled.
They dragged her out into the morning sunshine.  Rose looked around her.  It really was a beautiful day.  The sky was clear and the air cold and bracing.  The soldiers cut her feet loose from their bonds and ordered her to walk.
"Massage your legs," ordered one of the pair.  "Get the blood moving."
Rose sat on the ground between them, rubbing her calves and feet.  The returning bloodflow was a perfect agony and it was some time before her feet would support her.  The soldiers began to look nervous as the minutes dragged on.  At last, their patience wore out and they yanked her to her feet.  She swayed unsteadily, but remained erect.  She was determined not to display weakness before these Nazi stooges.
An officer strode toward them now.  Rose recognized him as the man who had helped her the night before.  In the sunlight he looked haggard and drawn, as if he had not slept in days.  He ignored the soldiers and nodded crisply toward her.  "I trust you passed a peaceful night?"
Rose nodded back.  This Nazi had another think coming if he believed she was going to thank him for his protection.  Instead, she glared at him until he shrugged and looked away, toward the brightening in the east.  He breathed deeply and exhaled.  "You know," he said, still looking away, "I, too, have not so many more of these sunrises left to me.  I must enjoy each one to its fullest."
"Guess you should have thought about that before you started the war," answered Rose.
The officer looked back at her again and sighed.  "You seem to be feeling rather more energetic now."  He checked his watch.  "It's time for us to be on our way," he said with a charming smile.  "Shall we begin?"

CHAPTER VI

THE VIEW FROM THE SCAFFOLD

A noose of heavy rope was slung about Victory Rose's neck.  Over that, the officer hung a crudely lettered sign that read, "Victory Rose: Enemy of the German People."  A small column of soldiers had been assembled, and Rose took her place at the head of it, the officer by her side.
"It is a pity you had to come here," said the man.  "Had you waited a few more weeks, perhaps only a few days, you could have made the journey in perfect safety."
"C'est la guerre," answered Rose.
"So it is," returned the officer.  He gave a sharp order and the column stepped out of the prison courtyard onto the pavement of the great East/West street that pierced the heart of Berlin.  A crowd of ragged onlookers had gathered on either side of the street.  They watched Victory Rose's little procession as it tramped along.  The people were grey skinned and half starved, a collection of the old, the crippled, and the very young.  They were the pathetic remnants of a dozen years of Nazi tyranny.  They watched her with a mixture of pity, jealousy, and formless anger.
Rose stumbled forward, weak and exhausted.  From time to time her guards stepped on the trailing end of her rope, making her jerk backwards.  Her hands still hung, bound, before her but she held her head high.  She glared at the muttering crowd, willing them to see that she was unbeaten.  Each time she stumbled, her back was prodded by the bayonet held by the soldier walking behind her.  Here and there, a war widow or an orphaned child spat out a curse at her.  Bits of filth and rubbish began to fly toward the column, flung by unseen hands hidden within the crowd.  A broken stone cracked against her skull, and her head was once again a throbbing mass of pain.  She fell to her knees and tried to shake the stars out of her eyes.
"Come on, be brave now," a voice said in her ear.  It was the officer, helping her to her feet.  "They're nothing but a rabble," he said.  "Don't show them any weakness."
She rose to her feet and carried on, through a growing torrent of abuse, toward the looming form of the Brandenburg Gate.  Rose could now see that scrap lumber had been used to erect a crude scaffold between the massive columns directly beneath the chariot of Victory that still perched atop the structure.  She managed a thin smile.  For Victory Rose to end her life beneath that statue was a curious irony.
"Hold your head high," said the officer.  "For a soldier, meeting death honorably can be his crowning achievement."  He bared his teeth.  "Magnificent.  I hope that when I meet my own end I can do so in a manner that will be remembered."
Rose shot him a dark look, but walked a little straighter.  Her hair tumbled about her beautiful, strong features and she regarded the scaffold with a calm and steady gaze.  Her powerful shoulders bore the weight of the rope and sign as if they were badges of honor.
Then, before she knew it, she stood before the ominous structure.  It rose darkly before her, a tangle of mismatched lumber cobbled together in the space of a few hours during the night.  Despite the officer's fine words, she could see nothing magnificent about this spot.  Her boots thudded hollowly on the steps as she mounted to the high platform.  She reached the top, where the hangman helped her to step up on a stool.  A cold breeze whipped through her close-cropped hair and she gazed out at the morning sun dancing over the wreckage of Berlin.  As the rope around her neck was fixed to a crossbar above, Victory Rose looked down at the crowd that swarmed thick below her.  She swept them with a gaze of contempt and pity.  In a few days each one of these people would be scrambling like rats for their own lives, when the Red Army rolled in here.
Those upturned faces were her last sight before a suffocating, black bag was thrust over her head.  From below, she heard a few words of oratory spoken, some foolishness about True Germans rallying to throw back the Bolsheviks at the gates of Berlin.  Then the stool was kicked out from beneath her feet.
The scratchy rope bit into her neck, which felt stretched to the snapping point as it suddenly bore all of her free swinging weight.  The noose tightened until it completely closed off her windpipe.  But the hangman had been given his orders.  Victory Rose was to strangle slowly in full view of the city, and so she did not fall far enough to break her neck.  Her mouth gaped for air which could not come.  Huge black and red blossoms began bursting before her eyes.  As consciousness began to fade, she realized to her dismay that her feet were kicking frantically in the air.  She tried to still herself as her final seconds of life slipped by.  She had not wanted to humiliate herself before her captors.  A distant roaring filled her ears.
Then somehow, she realized that her legs had been seized, that she was being lifted.  Her limp body sagged against the noose until she felt the rope go slack and Rose slammed hard against the floorboards of the platform.  Still dazed and strangling, she scarcely comprehended when the hood was torn away from her head.  Fingers pried roughly between the noose and the skin of her throat.  Her body gave a convulsive gasp and dragged in a great lungful of burning, cold air.
Sounds began to reach her brain: explosions, screams, and the rattle of gunfire.  A voice was screaming in her ear, "Get up! Get Up!"  At the moment, all Rose could do was gulp air and retch.  More hands grabbed her arms and she felt herself dragged bodily down the scaffold's steps.
As her senses began to clear, her mind grasped that she was at the center of a swirling melee.  She forced her legs to work and staggered alongside her rescuers as they dragged her though the stampeding crowd.  As she ran, she glimpsed the officer who had escorted her to the gallows.  He lay still now, in a pool of blood, his body trampled underfoot and forgotten.
"Run faster!" someone yelled.  And she tried.
Her mind was beginning to function again and Rose saw that she was being pushed along by two ragged men who swung submachine guns and loosed an indiscriminate spray of lead into the panicked crowd of Berliners.  Bodies flew in every direction as Rose's new companions cleared a path for escape.  Black objects sailed through the air and she heard the crash of hand grenades amid the wild howls from the crowd.  Obviously there were other fighters involved in this attack.
Plowing ruthlessly through the press, they burst into open space and ran south, twisting through side streets with German bullets singing through the air around them.  Wind exploded in and out of her lungs as she pounded along beside the guerillas.  When they rounded the corner of a building, a gunner stepped out from behind the scarred wall and fired off a burst at the pursuing soldiers before joining the group in their flight.  The hammering submachine gun slowed the Germans for a brief moment, but these were veterans of the fighting on the Russian front and it would take more than a little noise to scare them off.
Victory Rose was shoved through a shell hole into a vacant house.  The three guerillas tumbled in after her.  The little group crouched in silence as German soldiers thundered past.  Rose held out her tied hands.
"Get me out of these," she whispered.
One of the fighters produced a knife and sawed quickly at the cords.  A second later, Rose was rubbing circulation back into her swollen, purple hands.
"Come on," ordered one of the men, and the group ran through the house and out the back.  The group scrambled over a garden wall and fled down a back alley, through a gangway between two houses, and out onto another street.  As they ran, they heard shots and shouting from nearby streets.
Like rats, they scurried through the shattered hulk of the city.  At some point they were spotted once again and the chase was renewed, with blasts of machine gun fire being traded between the parties.
"This way," panted the man beside her, and they pelted down a narrow street toward a pile of broken masonry.  The German soldiers were closing in, their bullets kicking up stones around the four fugitives.  Rose felt a tug at her pants as a slug tore through the material, just brushing her leg.  Without slowing, the little group made a giant leap up onto the brick pile, scrabbling upward through the rolling debris.  In a shower of gunfire, they heaved themselves over the top and tumbled down the other side.
Rose looked up to see men rising up on her side of the pile, pointing long tubes back the way she had come.  There was a flash and a roar, and suddenly the earth shook as thunderous explosions rocked the street.  Her companions had led the Germans into a deadly ambush.  The men on the brickpile threw down their empty panzerfaust tubes and signaled for her group to follow them.
"Come on!" they shouted.  "That's stopped them for now, but there's more where they came from."
Rose's group was pushed down into a cellar and they ran through a labyrinth of subterranean passages that linked one building to another in the ruined city.  Holes had been smashed through foundations and the guerillas fled from cellar to cellar across Berlin.  At last they stopped.  While Rose and her companions caught their breath, one of the panzerfaust men pounded on a steel door.  After words had been exchanged through a loophole, the barrier was opened to admit them.
The room where Victory Rose found herself was small and stone-walled, with flickering light provided by a couple of candles.  About fifteen grimy men looked up when her group entered.  When the door was quickly barred behind them, the air became a reeking miasma of human bodies packed into close quarters.  Rose and the room occupants eyed one another carefully until, at last, one of them got up and extended a hand.
"Victory Rose," he said in Russian.  "We know you.  Welcome.  I am Nicholas."
"Thank you," she answered back in his language.
The man shrugged.  "It is to our credit to save a famous American hero like yourself.  Perhaps you will be of help to us after the Red Army closes its trap on the Nazis once and for all."
Rose nodded.  "I came here to fight the Germans," she said.  "I guess we can help each other."
Nicholas smiled thinly, but did not answer.
"Victory Rose," said one of the men beside her.  He was one of the guerillas who had freed her from the scaffold.  His voice was deep and masculine, with a trace of humor, and she realized that it had sounded familiar to her all along.  "No greeting for an old friend?"
Rose's eyes snapped open, wide with amazement.  She looked up into a smiling face she could never forget, though the tides of war had kept them apart.
"Crush!" she breathed, and threw herself into his arms.

CHAPTER VII
THE UNDERGROUND CONSPIRACY

Alexei Kruszynski, the Russian colonel whom Rose called "Crush," laughed down into her face, dazzling her with his gleaming, white teeth and snapping eyes.  He swept her up into a bear hug and planted a passionate kiss on her lips.  As of old, his breath reeked of vodka and the vilest of Russian, wartime cigarettes.  For a moment, Victory Rose allowed herself to be intoxicated by the memories of happier times.
Then she pulled away and stepped back.  "What are you doing in Berlin?" she asked.
"Such a question!" replied Kruszynski, with that rich laugh.  "And after you nearly shot me down, yesterday!"
"That was you?  Well you know," she answered, "you and your buddies did gang up on me back there."
"But of course," he boomed.  "We naturally assumed that you were a German, when we saw the markings on your plane.  Can you forgive me, darling?"
Rose ignored the endearment, not caring to make a public display of herself now that she had recovered from the surprise of meeting Crush again so unexpectedly.  "I suppose I really must, after you came so gallantly to my rescue just now.  No hard feelings," she replied, with a wink.
"That was a magnificent airplane you were flying.  Captured from the enemy, no doubt," continued Kruszynski.  "What wonders will be ours for the taking, once the Germans are defeated at last."
Rose simply smiled back at the Russian, and chose not to reply.  For now, Kruszynski need not know that she had come to Berlin with the intent of denying him those very wonders which he sought.  She did not fail to note that Crush, too, had avoided explaining his presence here in Berlin."
* * *
Deep underground, deeper by far than the cellar where Victory Rose and her companions hid, was the final refuge of the man who had once held all of Europe in a grip of terror.  Here, in a bunker far beneath the Chancellory building, Adolf Hitler crouched in safety, spinning webs of fantasy while his people were blown to pieces on the surface above.  With his mind crumbling further into madness as the hours of isolation went by, the Fuhrer hatched one last plot to spring on a world that was about to overwhelm him.
He stood, gazing at a huge wall map of Europe.  With a trembling finger, he traced an imaginary line around Berlin.  He turned back to look at the generals who waited eagerly for his pronouncements.  Hitler's face twisted in a sneering grin.
"Gentlemen," he said, "this circle represents the area over which the War Trumpet will make all electronic systems inoperable."  He indicated a red outline approximately one hundred miles in diameter.  "Except for ours, of course, which are safely shielded."
"Within this area," he continued, "the Russians will be left completely at your mercy.  By nightfall, day after tomorrow, you will have annihilated the Soviet military presence inside this ring and be poised for further attacks to the east.  I trust you have deployed your forces accordingly?"
The generals offered their agreements.  Privately, not one of them believed Germany possessed the resources necessary to push back the Red Army whether the War Trumpet worked or not, but the hypnotic presence of the Fuhrer could still make them imagine that anything was possible.  Leaving rational thought behind, the generals allowed one twisted old man to send thousands of Germans to their deaths.
"The War Trumpet is being prepared as we speak," announced Hitler.  "It will require approximately ten hours to set the controls and bring the dynamos up to power for the full scale blast.  During that time you will check and recheck your forces.  Armored units are to be prepared to spring forward the instant they receive the signal."
Vigorous acknowledgements came from the generals.  Inwardly though, they were horrified at their Fuhrer's grasp of reality.  He seemed to believe there were hidden panzer divisions waiting idly for his commands.  In truth, the Nazis would mount their attack with a few battered fighting vehicles and platoons of Volksturm militia mounted on bicycles.
"The prime object of the attack will be to smash Russian forces closing on the capital and drive the Red Army back over the Oder River.  Secondarily, forces will drive north to link up with Steiner's Operational Group and south to link up with Ninth Army and Fourth Panzer.  Once this is accomplished we will be in a position to throw a bridgehead across the Oder and renew the eastern offensive against the Bolsheviks." Hitler stepped back from the map and preened, amazed at his own genius.  "Gentlemen, this will be our summer!"
The generals were thunderstruck by the insanity of the plan.  They knew the best they could accomplish was to win a bit of breathing space before the Soviets drowned them by sheer numbers.  Their lone hope was that someone, somehow, would take effective control of the government while the Russians were off balance and negotiate an agreement with the Western Allies that would save the Fatherland from complete disaster.  And yet not one of them spoke up, mesmerized as they were by the evil power of the man with the funny moustache.  They prepared themselves to carry out his orders.
* * *
Back in the cellar where the guerillas sheltered, Alexei Kruszynski was speaking.  "Come now, Rose.  Let us not play games.  We both know there is only one reason your government would have sent you here alone, with us poised to take Berlin any day now."
Victory Rose remained silent.  Now that she knew Hitler was still in Berlin there could actually be two reasons why she might have been ordered into the city, either to capture the War Trumpet, or the Fuhrer himself.
But Alexei was not fooled.  He shook his finger and said, in his deep voice, "The Americans believe that Hitler is somewhere in the south, preparing a last defense.  Therefore, there is only one reason you could have come.  The War Trumpet is the one thing that could have brought you here."
Rose acknowledged the truth of his statement.  "Okay, Crush, you're right" she said.  "I was ordered to destroy the Trumpet.  We're afraid it could blunt your offensive and lengthen the war.  At this point, all the Nazis can accomplish by further fighting is to get more men killed, and we've all seen enough of that."
"This is all very true, darling," agreed Kruszynski.  "I, for one, would be quite happy to see the Trumpet destroyed.  I wonder that the Americans do not trust us to do that ourselves."
She looked into his dazzling eyes.  "Is that why you came here?" she asked.  "Because of the War Trumpet?"
Kruszynski shrugged, "And why should Russia not take an interest in this remarkable invention?"
Victory Rose smiled and shook her head.  "Let me see," she began, "if I can think of any reason why the world would be a better place if a man like Joseph Stalin didn't have that technology at his disposal..."  She rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling and pursed her lips, making her face a caricature of extreme thoughtfulness.  "Gee, Crush, that's a real tough one."
Colonel Kruszynski was not amused.  "May I remind you who you have to thank for your life today, and whose hospitality you share right now?"
Rose winced inwardly, knowing that in this respect the Soviet was right.
He continued, "Rose, I must refuse to allow my feelings for you to deny the Soviet Union her rightful share of the spoils of this war which we have won through blood and heroic sacrifice."
"I know, Crush.  You know I've seen it first hand.  I know what your country has suffered at the hands of the Nazis."
Taking this as an agreement of sorts, Kruszynski's mood altered and he flashed her another one of his devastating smiles.
"Why must we argue about such things?" he asked.  "For now, we both share the same objective, to prevent the Germans from using the War Trumpet and causing more suffering than they already have.
Alexei continued, "I, too, was sent into Berlin to seize the War Trumpet technology.  As you can see," he swept his hands around him, "my government has provided for me somewhat better than yours has for you."
Victory Rose smiled at this.  Kruszynski knew very well that she was worth more than all these men put together when it came to a fight.  Undoubtedly, one reason he had risked his mission here to rescue her was the hope of enlisting her aid.
"Let me propose an arrangement," said Alexei.  "Working together, we can accomplish more than any of us can do separately.  Let us join forces, you and we.  Our group possesses documents showing the general layout of the War Trumpet facility - documents, by the way, which we know your superiors were not able to furnish you."
"Let us pool our resources, destroy the War Trumpet together, and salvage what we can.  Once we have accomplished this we can reason out an agreement between ourselves as to how we share the benefits of this technology."
He looked deep into her eyes, "As allies should."
Rose was almost offended at his attempt to charm her into working against her own nation.  Yet she found it so amusing that it was impossible for her to stay angry.  Looking at the men around her, she knew Crush had a point.  If she had to fight against them as well as against the Germans, it might make a difficult mission into a mission that was nearly impossible.  Reluctantly, she had to agree.  She could deal with this crew once the plans for the War Trumpet were safely in her possession.
"All right, Crush," she said.  "I'll do it."
Kruszynski swept her up in another rib-cracking bear hug.  "Wonderful, darling!" he said as he showered kisses on her cheeks."
Rose squirmed in his grasp, but didn't knock him across the room.  He took this as an encouragement.
"And now," he said, "you must be exhausted.  Let us find some private quarters where you can sleep in peace."
The men in the room exchanged grins as their colonel escorted Victory Rose through a low archway into an adjoining chamber.

CHAPTER VIII
THE MIDNIGHT ATTACK

Back in Mannheim, General Wingate listened carefully to the young captain who stood before his desk.  Wingate had just returned from breakfast in the officers' mess when he found the man waiting in his office.  The moment he had seen the smooth face and clear eyes, the general realized that he was in the presence of a young replacement who had probably never seen a day's actual combat.
As had happened before, the general found himself intrigued by this interview.  It was the captain's lips that were moving, but he was sure the words came straight from Sergeant Cleveland.  The sullen noncom had served under Wingate long enough for the general to know how the man operated.
General Wingate himself had been troubled by the nature of the assignment he had handed to Victory Rose just the day before.  Even with her superior physical and mental prowess, he didn't know if it was possible for one agent to slip into Berlin and destroy the War Trumpet before the city was taken.  Looking at the map, he felt a sick certainty that it would not be possible for her to escape the city once the Soviet ring had closed.
And now this captain had come in to propose a plan to get her out of there.
Wingate gave the young man the courtesy of hearing him out.  He listened attentively, thanked the officer for his suggestions, and dismissed him.
Late that afternoon, a courier delivered a terse message to Sergeant Cleveland back in his own quarters in camp.  It read: "Air transport is arranged and waiting.  Proceed at once to Hamelin.  Report to Colonel Davis for further orders.  Gen. Wingate.
The captain would be perfectly qualified to remain in Mannheim and take care of the paperwork.
* * *
In the darkness of night, slinking figures crept furtively through the ruins of the darkened city of Berlin.  Like sly foxes, they stole from shadow to shadow, evading roving gangs of SS thugs who prowled the streets for deserters.  Just outside the Kroll Opera, at the entrance to a lean-to that would attract scant attention from the air, two armed soldiers stood and smoked.  Rose held up her fist to halt her companions and pointed at the guards.  Motioning for the men to wait, she darted off into the gloom, her German submachine gun slung across her back, her knife in hand.
The first guard never knew what hit him.  One moment he was taking a drag from his cigarette, and the next, he had simply ceased to exist.  The cigarette fell from his lips to smolder briefly on the ground.  The second guard uttered a low gasp when he turned and saw a dark form lowering the dead man gently to the ground.  With a lightning leap, Rose silenced the new man before his gasp could turn into a cry of warning.  Rose uttered a low whistle and waited for the guerillas to reach her.
When they had all gathered at the entrance to the lean-to, Kruszynski outlined once again the layout of the place.  There were twenty steps down, then a landing where a guard would certainly be posted, then another twenty steps, then a long corridor leading to the chamber where huge dynamos powered the Nazi wonder weapon.  Emanating from below, they could hear a rising hum.
Crouching at the top of the stairs, Rose peered down to the landing below.  As they had suspected, a guard lounged unwittingly on the iron platform.  He seemed to be lost in a daydream, vaguely watching something on the level below.  The man had no idea that within seconds, his war would be over.  Rose lifted the submachine gun to her shoulder and took careful aim.
The guard jerked as Rose's burst slammed home.  Before he hit the floor, the iron stairs rang under the thudding of heavy boots.  The guerillas bounded down three and four steps at a time.  Rose hit the wall at the bottom and whirled to the right, spraying the corridor below her with gunfire as she turned.  From behind her, hand grenades tumbled down into the knot of surprised men who still blinked up, uncomprehending.  Suddenly, the hallway trembled as explosions threw fire and shrapnel through the air.  Rose leaped down the steps into the blinding smoke and hurtled along the passage.
Doors were flung open on either side of the corridor and Rose fired reflexively into each one, not slowing to see what she had hit.  Had she eased her pace, Alexei and the other fighters behind her would have run right over her back.  A closed door barred her way at the end of the hallway.  She put her head down and launched herself against it, splintering the wooden panels and crashing to the floor of a metal balcony.  The guerillas poured through the doorway behind her, trampling her in their wild haste to reach the War Trumpet.  With their guns still barking, they began running down a stairway to their left, descending to the main floor of the underground facility.
In the seconds that she lay motionless under the pounding feet of the guerillas, Victory Rose stared wide-eyed into the vast cavern that housed the War Trumpet.  Bright lights overhead provided a harsh illumination for white-coated technicians who swarmed over the huge machine, checking dials and switches.  To one side, slave laborers tended the fuel lines that fed the dynamos from giant reservoirs of oil.  On the floor below, armed men were rushing into the chamber.  Rose turned to shout a warning, but her voice was lost in the earth-shaking scream of the monstrous device.  She saw flashes of gunfire, and guerillas began to fall.
The mission had turned into a fiasco.  Survivors were running back up the stairs now, and once again Rose was pummeled by running feet.  She rolled over and emptied her magazine down into the mass of pursuing soldiers.  A second later she was up on her feet, flying back up the hallway and reloading her gun as she ran.
Ahead of her, she saw a squad of heavily armed troops storming down the stairway where she and the guerillas had entered just minutes before.  The Russian fighters ran straight into them and the corridor erupted in a deafening chaos of gunfire.  Rose threw herself into a doorway that opened to the side and a rain of bullets kicked up chips from the concrete floor where her feet had been.
The space she entered was pitch dark but she ran forward at full speed anyway until she stopped, teetering on the edge of another stairway that led downward, lit only by a dim, bare bulb at the bottom.  Without a moment's thought, Rose plunged forward, her feet scarcely touching the treads until she crashed at the bottom.  Her booted foot kicked open a closed door and she dived into a well-lit room where uniformed officers turned to gawk at her in surprise.  Rose's own eyes widened, for in the midst of the soldiers she saw the trembling, hunched form of Adolf Hitler himself staring, open mouthed, at her.
With one, blurred movement Victory Rose surged forward.  The next instant, she held the terrified Fuhrer in an iron grip with the muzzle of her gun pressed against his temple.  The air resounded with the noise of pistols being cocked.  Another doorway slammed open and armed men poured into the room.
"Hands up!  Drop your weapon now!"
"Get away from me!  I'll shoot him!"
"Release the Fuhrer and surrender or we will open fire!"
"I'll kill him!  I swear I'll kill him!"
Rose dug the gun barrel harder into the side of Hitler's head.  He moaned softly and fainted.  Rose and the Germans glared at each other over the limp body of the Fuhrer.  Seconds ticked by as the standoff continued.  Events had transpired so quickly that neither party knew quite what to do.  Tension crackled through the crowded space.
"Please, everyone calm down."
Everyone turned to face the gentle voice that came from the doorway where Rose had burst in.  There stood an old man in a long, white coat.  A few, stray hairs swirled about his bald head.  Thick glasses perched crookedly on his faintly bemused face.
"Get out of here, Doctor!" shouted one of the soldiers.
The old man ignored the order and held his wrinkled hands out to Rose.  "Come, dear," he pleaded.  "You don't want to die here.  Let me help you."
Rose eyed the man suspiciously, but had no real alternative open to her.  Evidently, the man was of some importance and could be used as another hostage if necessary.  Twisting the gun meaningfully against the Fuhrer's head, she sidled toward the newcomer.  When she reached the doorway he spoke to her in soothing tones.
"Put him down gently," said the old man.  "I am Dr. Ulrich, the director of this project.  I am a far more valuable hostage than this poor fellow."  He indicated the insensate form of Hitler.  "He will only slow you down.  I can at least walk."
Before anyone could react, Rose had dropped the Fuhrer, none too gently, and seized the elderly scientist.  She didn't know if the man had told her the truth or not, but he was right about one thing.  Dragging an unconscious man along would slow her down.  Besides, she wasn't sure whether one of these Nazis might take it into his head to use this occasion as an excuse to assassinate Hitler, which might have put her in the situation of dragging a target with her instead of a hostage.  She pulled Dr. Ulrich up the stairs with her.
"This way," he said, pointing toward a passage, dimly visible in the poor light.
With no better idea, Rose followed his directions and hustled him through a winding labyrinth of passages until they reached a locked door.  The scientist produced a key and opened it for her.
"Quickly," he panted.  "The soldiers will be upon us in a moment.  This door opens on a stairway that will take you to the surface."
"Thank you," said Rose.
"Wait!" cried the old scientist.  "I really am the director of this project.  Am I right in assuming that you are the American known as Victory Rose?"
"That's right," she agreed.
"I want out of Berlin!" he hissed.  "Get me to the west before the Russians take the city."
Shouts began to sound somewhere not far off.
"Don't worry.  I was sent here to get you out of Berlin, but I can't do anything for you right now," said Rose.
"But you'll be back," said man, with frantic urgency.  "Here."  He thrust a crumpled paper into her hand.  "Follow these directions.  Now hit me."
Rose took the paper and drew back her fist.  She knew the old man wanted an alibi for having let her escape.
"Yes, Doctor, I'll be back.  I didn't come all this way for nothing."  She popped him on the jaw, hoping she hadn't hurt him.  He staggered backward and slumped to the floor.
The shouts grew louder and heavy footfalls announced the approach of armed searchers.  Rose turned and fled through the door.

CHAPTER IX
THE SECOND ATTEMPT

Victory Rose crouched in the now-abandoned cellar which Nicholas' fighters had made their hide-out just hours ago.  Now the guerilla leader, his men, and Crush were all either dead or captured in the underground chamber of the War Trumpet.  For not, there was nothing Rose could do for them.  With some stale bread and cheese she had, for now, tamed the rumblings of her empty belly.  She spread Dr. Ulrich's paper on the floor and read over the curious, German script.  It was a short note, describing an unguarded entrance to the War Trumpet facility and providing directions to the doctor's private office.  She was to arrive at ten o'clock in the evening, when the shift changed and it would not be so unusual for an unfamiliar person to be seen in the halls.  She was asked to find a lab coat, or at least some civilian clothing.
The guerillas had left some odd items of clothing behind them.  There was nothing like a lab coat, but Rose selected a pair of pants and a long overcoat that was two sizes too big for her.  She wouldn't pass as a technician, but she might blend in with the slave laborers in these ragged garments.  There was also a small cache of weapons and ammunition.  Rose stuffed a couple of spare magazines for her submachine gun into the lining of the coat.  Lastly, she considered the panzerfaust she found leaning in a corner.  After experimenting a little bit, she managed to rig a harness of sorts from strips torn from an old shirt.  Using this, she was able to hang the awkward rocket tube down her back, underneath the overcoat.  It made quite a bundle with the submachine gun, but by stuffing a blanket under the coat she hoped she could pass as a hunched and bulky man.  With plenty of dust rubbed into her face and hair, she thought she wouldn't stand out too badly.
Now, with nearly ten hours left before her meeting with Dr. Ulrich, the only thing left for Victory Rose was to get some much needed rest.  In two nights she hadn't closed her eyes for more than a few hours and she knew that she needed to be in the best condition possible in order to carry out this mission.
With that in mind, she curled up on a battered mattress and was soon snoring peacefully.
* * *
Sergeant Cleveland and a platoon of picked men had been riding in their little column for an hour now, bumping slowly over dangerous territory as they drove to the east.  Already, a handful of German soldiers had approached them with raised hands, glad to finish off their wartime service by surrendering to a unit of the western allies.  Cleveland had disarmed the hungry men and sent them back to the American lines on foot.  He was not equipped to house prisoners.
With a halftrack and two trucks to ride in, the group made fairly good time as they drove along.  General Wingate had done a good job of making arrangements for them.  When their transport plane had landed in the field outside Hamelin, the three vehicles were gassed up and loaded with supplies.  Sergeant Cleveland could remember many missions he had started out on far less well equipped than this.  Still though, he knew that this was an unofficial mission and that if it went bad, Wingate would deny knowledge of it.  Cleveland was on his own.
They would proceed east to a spot close to Brandenburg, if all went well.  Hopefully, the front lines would be fluid enough for them to get through.  Once in position there was nothing they could do but wait and trust that some rogue, German unit wouldn't decide to finish them off.  They would just have to see what developed.
* * *
Rose's watch said six o'clock when she awoke.  She ate what was left of the provisions in the cellar and chain smoked the last of her cigarettes while she waited for the sun to set.  She held Dr. Ulrich's note to the burning tip of her smoke and reduced it to ash.  At eight, she emerged from her underground hideout and made a very careful and circuitous journey to the site of the entrance Dr. Ulrich had indicated.  At ten o'clock, her shadowed form darted from the shelter of shattered walls and disappeared into an unmarked doorway.
The concrete steps she descended were coated with dust, as if they had been long forgotten and disused.  There was no light.  Rose groped her way down until her hands felt a steel door barring her way.  It opened with a rusty creak when she put her shoulder to it, and she peered into a corridor that glowed yellow in the light of a few electric bulbs.  When she stepped through the door, she noticed a pile of old lumber lying nearby.  She heaved a bundle up onto her shoulder and shuffled along toward Dr. Ulrich's office.
"You there!  Where are you going?"
The harsh voice sent an electric charge of adrenaline through Rose's body.  She stood still, hunched under the load of wood, with her head bowed.  A disheveled soldier reeled toward her.  He stank of filth and liquor.  His fingers dug into her face and forced her to look up at him.  His red, piggish eyes played over her.
"You look too healthy for a slave laborer," he slurred.  "You must be new."  His eyes roved over her, trying to imagine what lay beneath the bulky garments.
Rose tried her best to look terrified.  She began jabbering in Russian and the soldier shoved her away.
"Not worth the trouble," he mumbled, and resumed his uncertain walk down the corridor.  He seemed to have forgotten all about her, and Rose was glad she hadn't been forced to silence him.
She hurried along through the complex.  The few technicians she encountered didn't even bother to notice her.  It was only a few minutes before she saw the door to Dr. Ulrich's office.  Setting down the lumber with as little noise as possible, she ducked inside.
The old man was seated at his desk.  His jaw was swollen where Rose had hit him, but otherwise he appeared unharmed.  "Shut the door!" he whispered, impatiently.  His eyes betrayed a state of near panic, and rightfully so.  If he was found to be aiding an agent of the Allies, his death would certainly be very slow and very horrible.
"You look too healthy to be a slave laborer," he said.
"So I've been told," replied Victory Rose.  "What can we do about it?"
"Here," Ulrich handed her a lab coat and she stripped off the old overcoat.  He gasped, "My God!" when he saw the arsenal she carried under her clothing.
She slipped into the spotless, white coat and Ulrich said, "For heaven's sake, clean yourself up!  Your face is a mess!"  He handed her a rag and pointed out a pitcher of water.  As Rose washed her face, he looked anxiously at the gun and panzerfaust that she had brought in with her.
Rose jerked her thumb at a cart loaded with tools and electronic equipment.  "What about that?" she asked.
At his nod, she stowed her weapons underneath the load.  The spare submachinegun magazines she slipped into her coat pocket.  With that done, she was ready to go.
She looked into Ulrich's eyes.  "You realize I have to destroy the War Trumpet, don't you?  I can't just spirit you away and leave it in operation."
"Yes, of course I understand that," snapped Ulrich.  "Do you think I was born yesterday?  I only hope you have some plan ... at least a better one than you and your comrades came up with last night."
"We'll think of something," Rose answered with a sour look.  "What about the Russians, anyway?  Were they all killed?"
"Your friends," said the old scientist.  "Two of them are still alive.  I convinced the Gestapo that we were short of labor, which we always are, thanks to the brutal way our workers are treated.  They're tending a fuel line in the main chamber."
Rose's heart jumped at the news.  Crush might still be living, and she had a slim chance to save him.
"I need to be in the main chamber, overseeing the powerup sequence of the War Trumpet," said Dr.  Ulrich.  "It's a very delicate procedure and I hope those idiotic assistants of mine haven't bungled the job.  Come on ... Schulz.  And be sure to bring that cart."
The two strode purposefully out the door and down the hall.  The cart had a bad wheel and clattered so conspicuously that Rose wanted to jump out of her skin.  Ulrich nodded briskly to some of the technicians who walked by and Rose kept her eyes fixed straight ahead.  A set of huge double doors opened before them, and suddenly she was overwhelmed by the giant bulk of the War Trumpet, rising like a monstrous, burning idol before her.
Now that she could look at it without the distraction of gunfire ricocheting around her, Rose could see that the apparatus was even bigger and more complex than she had realized.  It towered nearly three stories tall, a mosaic of unbelievably intricate parts all festooned with ladders and scaffolding upon which the white-coated technicians climbed like ants.  The top of it was lost in a forest of condensers and cables and huge, blue sparks of electricity licked over the whole thing.  She wondered that the attendants weren't fried in the flashing display of power.  A constant, ear-shattering scream filled the chamber as the machine pulled more and more power from the huge dynamos.  Ulrich yanked at her elbow and handed Rose a set of earplugs.
Now she looked toward the great fuel reservoirs and the gangs of oil-soaked slaves who worked like demons under the watchful eyes of SS guards.  Her gaze skipped frantically over the toiling masses, seeking one set of features among all those blackened faces.  In that Dante-esque vision she finally picked out a flash of white teeth.  They were not gleaming now in a carefree laugh, but were bared in a grimace of terrible effort.
No matter ... Victory Rose had found the one she sought.  Alexei Kruszynski still lived!

CHAPTER X
UNDER HITLER'S SPELL

Elated now, with the knowledge that Crush was still alive, Victory Rose followed Dr. Ulrich across the floor of the teaming chamber, pushing the balky cart along before her.  She watched over it anxiously, fearful that someone might discover the weapons she had hidden there.  If that happened, she stood small chance of leaving the installation alive, much less accomplishing her mission of destroying the War Trumpet.  At least the squeaking of the bad wheel was no longer audible over the din of the howling dynamos.  As they neared the pulsing shock wave generator, Ulrich finally signaled her to leave the cart in a narrow space between two cabinets, where it would not be too conspicuous.
Rose snatched up a clipboard and followed the old doctor up onto the scaffolding that was strung along the sides of the great machine.  As she climbed and walked along after him, she jotted down figures from the instruments that Ulrich inspected.  She had no idea what the dials indicated, but she needed to look as if she belonged.  Luckily, the shriek of the dynamos charging the Trumpet had reached a pitch that made conversation completely impossible.  Communication was carried on by writing or hand signals.
Taking Victory Rose in tow, Ulrich visited each station on the War Trumpet.  He often nudged technicians aside to make his own fine adjustments to the control panels when he felt that they needed his guiding hand.
From the corner of her eye, Rose noticed a disturbance on the floor, far below them.  A multitude of dark-uniformed men had entered the chamber and were bullying their way through the crowd of technicians.  A figure in a long, dark coat and officer's cap tottered along in their midst.  With a sudden start, Victory Rose recognized the man who had just walked in, surrounded by his ring of sycophantic admirers.  It was the Fuhrer, himself, who had recovered from his fainting spell and had now arrived to watch the first full-scale deployment of his newest wonder weapon.  She watched as his eyes glowed in childish wonder at the sight of his mighty engine of destruction.
Rose grabbed the Dr. Ulrich's arm and hustled him off the scaffolding and around to the opposite side of the War Trumpet, giving him very hard and meaningful looks when he tried to resist.  Trying to stay out of sight, they worked their way back around the great machine, weaving a path through aisles of vibrating equipment whose purpose she could not even guess.  Rose pulled him into a corner behind a stand of metal shelves where they could have a view of events while enjoying the safety of a shadowed nook.  When Ulrich saw his leader, he tried to leave their hiding place and join the throng.  Rose held him back by main force.  His face disgusted her with its display of open adoration and she wondered if it might not be better to leave him for the Red Army to play with after all.  He was obviously not as reformed as she had at first believed him to be.
Now she saw the tottering form of Hitler as his men assisted him to mount the makeshift steps to the scaffolding that ringed the War Trumpet.  She half wondered if he would finish the climb or collapse in a trembling heap and have to be carried away on a stretcher.  But some dark fire still burned in the old monster.  His stride seemed to gain strength as he ascended.  His pale eyes began to regain some of their piercing power as he swept the crowd with his gaze.  The technicians on the floor below gradually drifted away from their labors, stood still and gawked upward like superstitious primitives who looked to the heavens for a hovering angel, not realizing that what they saw was a devil in human form.
Now HItler stood in glory atop the scaffolding, visibly drawing power from the screaming multitude below him as the War Trumpet drew power from the screaming dynamos that fed it.  His trembling was stilled.  His hunched shoulders straightened and he appeared to grow in stature.  He comforted the throng with the warm gaze of a loving mother.  He chastised them with the lightning glare of a stern father.  The crowd worshipped him.  He fed upon it like a hungry leech.
Hitler waited with masterful patience for the crowd to still itself.  As the people gave him their rapt attention, he began to speak.  His words were inaudible in the room's din, but that did not matter.  It was his fiendishly powerful will that spoke, ladling its poison from his black heart directly into theirs.
He worked into his oratory, starting slow and gathering the mob into his hands, building momentum, the pressure increasing until he was exploding, spilling forth a torrent of ecstatic frenzy.  He gestured like an angry titan, nearly overwhelming the backdrop of the giant machine behind him.  Minute after minute rolled by while the ranting Fuhrer cast his hypnotic spell.  The chamber trembled now, not only to the shriek of the dynamos, but to the thunder of an enslaved multitude roaring, "Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!"
Not since the Nuremburg rally of years past had the Fuhrer enjoyed such a stage, such an adoring audience.  The crowd was offering him its very humanity, and he was snapping it up.  Even Victory Rose was horrified to find herself gazing up in rapture at the man who had nearly destroyed civilization with his lust for power.  She was witnessing the final glory of his reign of evil.  She stared across the sea of screaming faces.  It was like watching a silent movie of an insanely cheering mob.
The crowd became one with Hitler as he swept them up into the embrace of his passion.  The fires within him burst forth and bathed the crowd, which absorbed and returned them in a symbiotic relationship that left both giver and receiver exhausted and exhilarated.  It went on and on, far longer than Rose had imagined the man could have managed.  And yet, finally, the rant began to wind inevitably downward as the physical strain on his body overcame the spiritual nourishment he reaped.
The Fuhrer slumped against the railing, panting like a man whose passions had left him worn out.  Sweat pasted his forelock across his dreamy face.  His aids finally stepped up and began to ease him away as his knees began to buckle.  The mighty dictator followed their lead like a little child.  He had given forth his last and greatest effort.
The multitude of technicians scarcely noticed that their god was being almost carried down the steps from his lofty podium.  The cheering and waving and foot stamping went on and on, as if they did not want to believe the moment could ever end.
Hitler collapsed at the bottom of the steps.  In seconds, he had withered to become a mere shell of a man.  His infernal power had fled him.  Mumbling to himself, barely breathing, he was borne along by his men.  The crowd burst its bonds and surged toward him.  Arms strained, fingers stretched to touch the coat of their beloved idol.  The dictator scarcely seemed to notice.  Rose, too, had gaped in awe at the spectacle.  Now she turned back to Dr. Ulrich, only to find him ... gone!
She whirled frantically, cursing herself for taking her eyes off the old man.  She should have realized that if she was affected by the Fuhrer's performance, then the old scientist who had enjoyed twelve years of Nazi patronage would be completely taken in.  Rose's sharp eyes scanned the swirling crowd in an effort to find Ulrich.  When at last she spotted his bald dome bouncing up and down as he strained to catch a glimpse of Hitler, she cast concerns for her own safety to the winds and plunged into the mass.
With ruthless jabs, Rose's elbows cleared her path.  She tore through the crowd with purposeful strides, shoving aside those too stubborn or careless to give way to her.  From time to time she caught sight of Dr. Ulrich, and corrected her course to intercept him.
Victory Rose barely realized when the momentum of the crowd began to overwhelm her.  At some point though, all her shoving was no longer enough to keep her ahead of the press behind her.  She was carried forward and smashed into the mass of bodies in what was turning into an uncontrollable stampede.  Rose fought now, not to move forward, but to remain on her feet.
She stomped on bulky, yielding forms that lay unseen beneath her.  There could be no mercy for the fallen.  Brute survival was the only imperative now.  Rose swung her powerful arms around the shoulders of two men on either side of her and together they made a bulwark that could withstand the crush of humanity.
Rose and her two captive companions were nearing the ring of uniformed guards that surrounded the Fuhrer now.  She was on a collision course with Hitler and his men.  Real fear began to grip her now.  Her face was well known to the mad dictator and if he still lived he was sure to recognize her.
Now she was smashed bodily against the angry guards.  She looked directly into the eyes of the one in front of her.  Spit from the man's shouting mouth sprayed over her face as he vainly screamed for order.  His voice went unheard.
A final surge of the multitude and Rose was driven through the ring of soldiers.  She saw the comatose Fuhrer sagging between two men.  His head hung down and swung like a half-filled sack of potatoes.  Rose held her breath and whispered a prayer that the man was already dead.
And then her prayer was answered.
As if the universe had decided to play a horrible joke on Victory Rose, the rumpled head began to rise.  The Fuhrer's grey-skinned face revealed itself to her.  His drooling lips twisted in a hellish grin.  The terrible, watery eyes fixed upon her.  Rose stood paralyzed as Hitler's finger rose, pointing.
And his vile mouth formed the words, "Victory Rose..."

CHAPTER XI
AT THE MERCY OF THE MOB

The Fuhrer's quivering finger hung like a dagger, poised to strike.  His face bore an expression that could have been read as stark terror, or malicious glee.  Hitler's announcement of the name "Victory Rose" went unheard over the thunder of the dynamos, but an ever widening circle of eyes began to focus upon the object of his attention.  Rose realized with horror that she was transfixed by a hundred stares from every quarter of the chamber, and she saw her name formed soundlessly by screaming lips within the crowd.
Rose felt hands seize her from behind.  Lashing out automatically, her fists connected with bone and the crowd fell back a step.  She whirled from one side to the other, facing it down with flashing eyes and bared teeth.  For just a moment, the multitude of technicians hesitated.  It was like a mindless, powerful beast waiting for the spark that would impel it to action.
One of Hitler's guards provided that spark.  He lunged forward at Victory Rose's unprotected back and wrapped his grey clad arms around her like a vice, pinning her arms to her sides.  Rose's reaction was automatic.  Her heel stamped down on the man's foot with crushing force.  She whirled and struck, and the hapless bodyguard flew backwards with blood spurting from his ruined nose.
But the dam had broken and the mob surged forward.  Clawing fingers ripped at her twisting form.  Rose's powerful arms and legs worked like pistons, dealing out bone crushing punches and kicks.  Bodies rolled underfoot as the frenzied rioters trampled their own wounded.  One raving face after another loomed up and disappeared as Victory Rose battled for her life.
Smashing her way through the torrent of angry humanity, she made for the closest refuge she could find - the stairs leading up to the scaffolding on the War Trumpet.  Her shredded clothing fluttered about her as she stormed out of the crowd and leaped high upon the iron steps.  The human river poured up the stairway after her, and paid a grim price for every inch it gained.  Rose's own swollen fists sprayed red drops with every blow she struck.  She screamed and fell as the nails of a fallen man ripped deep furrows down her leg.  The stairs dug painfully into her back as the crowd swarmed over her.  A thunderous two-legged kick drove them off.  White coated bodies tumbled through the air as the leaders were hurled away.
Victory Rose stood, gasping for breath, at the top of the stairs.  Her creamy skin gleamed through rent clothing.  With one eye blackened, bleeding from a score of wounds that showed through her ragged clothing, her ripped thigh awash in gore, she took her wide-legged fighter's stance and raised her fists in defiance.  The howling mob took up the challenge.
Looking down at the charging mass, Rose knew she could not save herself from being overwhelmed.  She turned and fled.
Now the metal scaffold trembled under the pounding of countless running feet.  Even wounded as she was, Rose's fleetness could have kept her well ahead of the crowd had she not stopped at each panel of instruments and spent precious seconds throwing switches and twisting the dials out of adjustment.  The bloodthirsty mob stampeded after her across an unsupported stretch of catwalk and she leaped just in time.  Her body flashed across open space and she snagged a stair rail just as the structure collapsed under the weight of humanity.  A great, white-coated mass fell helplessly into the mob that rioted more than two stories below.
With a flex of her powerful arms, Rose dragged herself to safety and crouched for a moment on the swinging staircase, looking down at the boiling mob.  Any object that hands could grab was being hurled up at her, but she was too far above them.  The missiles only fell back to strike those below.  Turning her back upon her frustrated pursuers, she crawled painfully to the top of the stairs and rested while she considered her next move.
She had done her work well, sabotaging the War Trumpet's controls as she ran.  The giant dynamos were slowly winding down and the screaming of the machine had quieted to the point where it was just possible for her to hear the howls directed at her from below.  She got up and walked slowly along the catwalk, looking for some means to exit the chamber.
* * *
Swinging south of Brandenburg, Sergeant Cleveland's expedition had halted at a farmhouse where they made their headquarters.  They were welcomed with fawning attention by the master of the domain, who could read the writing on the wall and offered them his profuse assurances that he had never supported the Nazis.  The cynical Cleveland merely grunted and glanced warily at the beer offered by the fat landowner.  DiMartino bravely volunteered to risk death by testing the man's hospitality and was soon quite happily certain that the brew was perfectly safe.
Here, Sergeant Cleveland decided to rest and wait.  He had led his men into dangerous country, behind the German lines and only twenty miles from Berlin.  At any time during the day they could have run smack into enemy troops.  Given the fluidity of the situation, he was also prepared to encounter Russians.  Stumbling into either nationality could have unpredictable consequences.
There was really no way for anyone to know where Victory Rose would emerge from the besieged city.  It seemed logical that she would try to break out as far west as possible, but that was only an educated guess.  And after years of war, Cleveland was realistic enough to face the fact that if she would emerge was just as uncertain as where.
Weary as he was, Cleveland slept little that night.  He lay for hours, listening to the faint rumble of artillery in the east.  He pictured Victory Rose on the receiving end of those exploding shells.  He finally drifted off for a few, brief hours.
In his dreams, he lay in a muddy trench while a massive artillery barrage tore the landscape around him.  Plumes of smoke and flame rose to blot out the sky as he crouched in terror.  A shell crashed to earth just yards away, and a massive, black wall of earth filled his vision.  He awoke with a cry.
And looked directly into Coochy's wide-eyed face.
"Tanks, Sarge!" he yelped.  "We're surrounded by panzers!"
* * *
Victory Rose continued her slow walk around the War Trumpet.  The crowd below had fetched ladders now, and was trying to set them up against the side of the great machine.  Rose could see though, that it would be some time before they could manage to reach her.  She focused on her search for an exit.
Above her, a jungle of electrical cables formed a tangled mass.  She searched them carefully in hopes that she could discover where they entered the chamber.  Her piercing eyes followed the snaky lines until a grin spread over her face.  A bundle of the cables disappeared through a large hole in the wall several yards away.  Judging the distance, she knew it would be child's play for her to leap high enough to seize a handhold and work her way along the electrical lines.  If she was lucky, she could make the journey without being electrocuted.
As she positioned herself for the jump, her concerns about electrical current were suddenly shoved to the back of her mind.  Rose whirled at the sound of running feet and came face to face with another angry throng pouring toward her from the other side of the War Trumpet.  They had found a different way up and now she had no place to run.  Without a second thought, she leaped for the cables.
Rose caught one of the arm-thick lines in a firm grasp and held on tight while her legs swung out over empty space.  She was about to reach forward when she felt a terrific pull on her ankle.  One of the technicians had leaped after her and now clung fiercely to her leg.  Rose knocked the man loose with a desperate kick and he fell, spinning, to the floor, far below.  She was free for just a second before she was grappled again, and yet again.  In a moment she was struggling to support the weight of three men who dangled from her waist and legs.
With steely determination, Victory Rose set her mind to the task of escape.  Her muscles quivered with the terrible strain of supporting hundreds of pounds.  Despite her will to edge forward, she could do no more than simply hang motionless and use all her strength to hang on.  She was fighting a losing battle and she knew it.  By now, even if the three men dropped off her, her arms might be too weak to perform the task demanded of them.
But the men were not dropping off.  Instead, they were clawing and swinging and doing their best to yank her loose.  They didn't seem to care that her fall meant their death as well as hers.  Rose felt her fingernails peel off as her hands slipped over the insulated line.
And suddenly the strain was gone.  She was falling through the air.  Her sense of relief almost overwhelmed her realization that she was more than thirty feet above the concrete floor.  The men had also let go as the group plummeted downward.
With less than a second to act, Victory Rose swung about and seized two of the men, thrust them beneath her as her only cushion against the impact when they landed.  She closed her eyes as the ground rushed up at her, and an instant later she lay dazed and helpless as the crowd closed in on her.

CHAPTER XII
SHACKLED FOR DEATH

Four idling Tiger tanks sat in front of Sergeant Cleveland's farmhouse.  Half a dozen other vehicles, of more or less military appearance, were parked around and between them.  German soldiers sat nearby, smoking and drinking water from a horse trough.  It was a battered, but still powerful, little military unit that faced the Americans.
Cleveland tried to rub the sleep out of his face as he watched out the window.  He dismissed Coochy with a surly nod when the big medic persisted in asking what they were going to do.  The tough noncom had no idea what to do about this development, so he handled it in the same, direct way he handled everything.  Shouldering his Thompson, he strode out onto the front step and eyed the newcomers.  With his arms folded and a sullen expression plastered over his face, he hoped that he appeared more confident than he felt.  Those Tigers could level the farmhouse in minutes.
An officer popped out of one of the tank hatches and stood erect, waiting to be noticed.  The sergeant remained silent and stubborn.  A minute ticked by while the two battle leaders pointedly ignored each other.  The officer's driver gunned the engine, hoping to force an acknowledgement from Cleveland, but the waiting game continued.  German soldiers watched curiously from the yard while Americans peered through the windows of the house.  The sun continued to rise and no one seemed to know what to do about the situation.
Finally, the German colonel climbed down from his vehicle and walked over to Cleveland.  With a salute, he introduced himself as Colonel von Wolfram of the Fourth Panzer Army.  The sergeant returned the gesture.
"I believe we have you trapped and outnumbered, sergeant," said the officer in crisply accented English.
"There's a lot more where we came from," growled Cleveland.
The colonel's face puckered into a sour expression.  "And you are a very long way from your lines," he continued.
Cleveland grinned.  "Don't worry, Colonel," he answered.  "They'll be closer tomorrow."
"You are making this very difficult," spat the German.
"Let me make it easy for you, Colonel," said Cleveland.  "You offer me the surrender of your men and your vehicles.  I offer you breakfast and escort back to the American lines."
Cleveland added, "You look hungry."
The colonel reddened, but began to unbuckle his pistol belt.  "I must explain the situation to my men," he said.
"You tell it any way you want," said Sergeant Cleveland.  "Just make sure they get the message."  And he held out his hand to receive the offered sidearm.
After Cleveland went back inside the farmhouse, his men crowded around him with laughter and congratulations.
"How'd you know that Kraut wanted to give up?" asked Coochy.
Cleveland blew out a heavy breath and mopped his brow.  "Who knew?" he answered.
* * *
Victory Rose was seized and dragged away from the bodies that lay crumpled beneath her.  Although the fall had not killed her, for now she was so dazed from the impact that she could do no more than watch the hands that carried her.  With a bitter stoicism, she suffered the blows and kicks rained on her by the crowd.
After enduring the gantlet of abuse she was dragged inside the ring of guards and hurled to the floor.  She lay motionless at the Fuhrer's feet.
"Helpless at last," wheezed the old dictator.  "One dream, at least, has been fulfilled - that my eyes should witness the sight of you groveling before me."
"Never," gasped Rose, struggling to rise.  A heavy boot on her neck crushed her back down to the concrete.
"When the Fuhrer says 'grovel,' you grovel!" screamed one of the guards.
Rose went limp, unable to fight any longer.  Hitler laughed as the hobnailed boot sole continued to grind against her flesh.  "Now what shall we do with you?" he mused.
A familiar voice caught Rose's attention.  "My Fuhrer!  My Fuhrer!" it shouted.  She felt Hitler's attention waver away from her as Dr. Ulrich pushed his way to the fore.  Her heart sank under the heavy knowledge of the Nazi scientist's slavish adoration of his leader.
"What is it, Ulrich?" asked Hitler.
"My Fuhrer, I beg to report," panted the old man, "This saboteur's attack has delayed the War Trumpet's blast by no more than one hour.  The controls are being reset and power is regaining its former levels."
Indeed, the low rumble of slowly turning dynamos was beginning to vibrate the chamber once again.  The wonder weapon was still a living menace to the Allied war effort.
"Ah, my faithful Ulrich," gushed the Fuhrer.  "It is minds like yours that forge the weapons our soldiers will carry to ultimate victory."
Rose's stomach turned as she heard the old doctor shout a passionate, "Heil Hitler!"
"And what shall we do with this American strumpet?" queried Hitler.  "I wish her to meet a fitting end ... the sort of death she richly deserves after the damage she has inflicted upon the Fatherland over the past four years!"
A clanking noise reached Rose's ears.
"What is this, Ulrich?" snapped the Fuhrer.
Brutal hands yanked Rose's arms behind her back.  Pain racked her twisted muscles as cold metal was clamped about her wrists.
"Metal collars, Fuhrer," said Ulrich, "for mounting the coolant pipes.  They are adjustable."
As he spoke, Dr. Ulrich was screwing the iron tight on Victory Rose's wrists and ankles.  The rigid fittings bit deeply into her tortured flesh.  When he was finished, four iron pipe collars clasped her limbs.  They were not chained together and while somewhat weighty, they did not prevent her from moving.
"I trust you have something in mind, Doctor," said Hitler.
"Oh yes, Fuhrer," answered Ulrich.  "Oh yes...  You will see the end that I have planned.  And believe me, Fuhrer, it will be both glorious and terrible."
"Bring her!" he shouted.
Again Rose was dragged through the crowd, but this time it was six uniformed guards who performed the deed.  They walked briskly, with powerful strides, and the mob fell back before them.  The soldiers who dragged Victory Rose to her doom also performed an unintended act of protection for her, intimidating the frenzied technicians so that she was spared the rain of torments she had suffered earlier.  Her weary mind embraced this tiny relief.
Rose's feet banged limply against stair treads as she was hauled up another set of steps that wound upward around the body of the War Trumpet.
"This way!" cried Ulrich.  "Follow me."
The soldiers obeyed the old doctor's commands and stamped along behind him.  As they proceeded along a catwalk, Rose looked down into the milling throng.  Suddenly her sharp eyes picked out the Fuhrer among his people, far below.  Hitler's face was turned upward now, and wearing a look of triumphant glee.
"Here!" barked Dr. Ulrich.  He pointed to a huge wall of metal that was mounted high up on the side of the War Trumpet.
"Raise her arms," ordered the doctor.  "Press them against the metal plate!  Now!"
The soldiers held her arms up high over her head, but they did not need to press them against the vibrating metal.  Four sharp clanks announced to Rose's ears that a force had seized the pipe collars and held them fast against the wall.
"The electromagnet," announced Ulrich.  "One of the great electromagnets that forms the heart of the War Trumpet."  He leered at Rose.  "The machine is nearing full power, you verdammt American.  Once it does, the weapon will be ready to fire its shockwave across the city.  When that happens, dear girl, this plate will become charged with millions of volts of electricity."
Ulrich leaned out over the railing and addressed the crowd.
"At the blast of the War Trumpet, Victory Rose will be burnt to a smoking crisp before your eyes!  The Third Reich's renewed march to conquest will begin with the death of our greatest enemy!"
The doctor turned and laughed as Rose struggled helplessly against her bonds.  Blood streamed from her wrists as she pulled desperately at the metal collars that held her against the giant magnet.
"Be ready, Victory Rose!" laughed the doctor.  "Be ready when the moment comes!  There won't be another," he warned.
He ushered the guards back toward the stairway.  When they balked at leaving Rose alone, he told them, "Come along, you fools.  Once the War Trumpet sounds, this whole area will be filled with live bolts of electricity.  We'll all fry if we stay here.  Move!"
The guards didn't have to be told twice.  Without a backward glance, they turned and ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time in their haste to reach a place of safety.  Hanging back, Dr. Ulrich held Rose's face in one withered hand and hissed, "Be ready!"
Then he, too, was leaping down the steps with surprising agility for a man of his age.  In a second, he was gone and Rose was alone, pinned to the wall in a horrible crucifixion in full view of the ranting mob, far below her.  She stared at a wall clock that hung at the far end of the chamber.  The moments of her life were ticking away and she was helpless to save herself.  She gritted her teeth and prepared to meet her end.  The moment was drawing near...

CHAPTER XIII
THE FLAMING REVOLT

The hour of delay was almost up.  The mighty War Trumpet was vibrating so powerfully that Victory Rose's teeth rattled like dice in her head.  The clock's minute hand stood nearly straight up, and the technicians who were not otherwise occupied were standing below, staring up at her, waiting to see her fry like a steak on a hot grille.  Even Hitler seemed to have regained some of his strength and she could see the sparkle in his evil eyes as he watched for the fatal moment.
Standing near the gloating dictator, Dr. Ulrich's hand was raised high in the air.  When his hand dropped, that would be the signal to start the final sequence that would lead to the Trumpet's great blast - the blast that would leave the Russian armies helpless at the hands of the Germans, and send millions of volts of electricity through the body of Victory Rose.
The noise of the dynamos was beyond screaming now.  The din had reached such a point as to have no meaning.  Blue lightning flashed across the cables and snapped angrily at Rose's face.  She saw, with a sick horror, Dr. Ulrich bring down his hand in the sharp, chopping motion that would tell his underlings to begin the final countdown.  Only seconds left now...
With the whine of the dynamos drowning out all else, Rose's first inkling that something unexpected had occurred was a burst of movement to her right and far below.  With her view almost totally obscured by the bulk of the War Trumpet, she had to strain to see what had happened.  Figures began leaping into view down on the floor.  They were raggedly dressed, thin and dirty, and they swung tools, lumber, anything that could be used as a weapon.  It was the slave laborers!  At the moment the final switches had been thrown on the War Trumpet, they had staged a revolt.  Rose saw a mighty figure jump up on a desk and flail at the crowd with an oversized wrench, before he hurled himself through the air toward Hitler's guards.  It was Crush!  She might have known that he would be one of the ringleaders of the rebellion.  She lost sight of him as he disappeared into the melee.  The uprising had come too late to save Rose, though.  She knew she was living through her final moments, but she was thrilled to have had one last glimpse of her beloved Russian.
Rose twitched uncontrollably as she felt electric tingles nip at her wrists through the iron cuffs that held her pinned to the machine.  The countdown had to be near zero now, regardless of the battle down on the floor.  In a moment the Trumpet would sound and Nazi armies would march again.  She fumed at the bitter knowledge that her mission had failed.  Suddenly a streak of fire flashed from one side of the chamber to the other, ending in a flaming explosion against the side of one of the fuel tanks.  Rose looked quickly to find its source and saw ... Dr. Ulrich holding the empty tube of her smoking panzerfaust - the one she had left hidden in the cart.  It was he who had fired the missile that had ruptured the giant, iron tank.  Tons of burning oil poured out now, upon slave and Nazi alike.  Explosions rocked the chamber and more tanks split open, dumping their contents.  The vast chamber became a scene out of Dante's worst nightmares, a lake of fire where tormented souls continued to battle, knee deep in flame.  Hatred between slave and Nazi ran so deep that each lusted to strike the last blow before burning to death.  Rose stared down in wonder at the horrifying scene.  A wall of heat slammed up at her, threatening to roast her alive.  But at the same time, every electric light in the place went out.  The scream of the dynamos quieted as the dead motors spun down.  Suddenly, Rose felt her wrists and ankles released from the metallic grip of the pipe collars and she crashed to the hot iron catwalk, burned and bruised, but alive.  Instantly, she leaped up preferring that the soles of her boots received the metal's searing kiss, rather than her bare skin.
* * *
In the meantime, twenty miles away, Sergeant Cleveland and Colonel von Wolfram sat in the main room of the farmhouse, talking over glasses of the disgruntled landowner's best wine.  It had been one thing for him to entertain a small force from the victorious, American army.  It was quite another thing though, for the farmer to see his supplies eaten up by a mob of his own, defeated soldiers.
With their men fed and bedded down for the night, von Wolfram and Cleveland needed to discuss what their next step would be.  Von Wolfram had asked for help in getting his men to the west and safely surrendering them, but Cleveland had no intention of leaving the area without Victory Rose, or at least without the knowledge that she would not be able to return.  Given the facts that von Wolfram's battle group was far more powerful than his own and that he was, in fact, in territory still held by the Germans, the tough noncom felt his best choice was to level with the enemy officer man to man.  Colonel von Wolfram's eyes had widened in admiration as Cleveland explained his mission.
"Aha!" said von Wolfram.  "So you are that famous Sergeant Cleveland.  How we all itched to get our hands on you and your lovely commander.  I can tell you, your head would have been worth the knight's cross to the man who took it.  In a way, it is a pity," he continued, "that we did not meet until the war was all but over.  Now we shall never have the opportunity to measure ourselves against one another."
"Yeah," agreed Cleveland.  "You can see how broken up I am."
Von Wolfram smiled.  "You Americans.  Always with the jokes."
"What isn't a joking matter, Colonel," said Cleveland, "is that we're waiting here to escort Major Hardwyk home and we're not leaving here without her."
"I admire your loyalty, Sergeant," answered the German.  "And you have done a remarkable job, commandeering these vehicles and leading your men so far into enemy territory.  But we both know there is one glaring weakness in your plan."
Cleveland nodded.  He had always known that actually locating Victory Rose, if she emerged from the besieged city, would require a tremendous amount of good luck.
The colonel thought a moment and then offered his help.  "We have men and vehicles, Sergeant.  We can fan out to cover a wider area, and we can communicate by radio.  If your Major does escape from Berlin, you will stand a much better chance of intercepting her if you allow us to help."
Sergeant Cleveland's eyes narrowed with suspicion.  "That's a very generous offer, Colonel.  I'll give it some thought."
With a sigh, Colonel von Wolfram replied, "You doubt my good intentions.  After my remark about the iron cross, perhaps that is to be expected.  I apologize for my indiscretion."
The colonel leaned forward and set down his wine glass.  "Let me explain something to you.  Five years ago we were told that we were fighting to save the west from being crushed by the barbarians of the east.  Through all the twists and turns of the Nazi regime, we put on blinkers and we told ourselves that the camps and the killings and the lies were small problems and that we could set them right once our nation was safe and strong again.  We believed our leaders.
"We were wrong.
"This is my chance to atone in some small way for the horrors that I helped inflict upon the world.  Sergeant, I respectfully request that you allow me to aid you in your mission."
Cleveland nodded.
* * *
Deep beneath Berlin, in the chamber of the War Trumpet, Victory Rose searched frantically for a means of escape.  The hole she had spotted earlier in the night was out of reach from her present location.  She was facing the door which she had entered the night before, when she and the guerilla band had first tried to storm the installation, but in order to reach it she must cross the lake of flaming oil.  The increasing blast of heat that struck her from below made an excellent inspiration for speedy thought.  If she didn't find an exit soon she would end up like those poor devils down on the floor who had burned alive.
There was no time for weighing risks.  Rose leaped up and caught one of the thick electrical lines that snaked overhead.  Bracing her feet against the side of the machine, she wrenched desperately at the cable until it tore loose.  From that moment on, there was nothing she could do other than keep a tight grip as she swung out over the roaring blaze.  With the lights gone, the chamber was illuminated only by the scarlet flare of the burning oil.  In that uncertain light it was almost impossible for her to judge direction and distance with any assurance.  She could only clench the cable with white knuckled hands and hope.
As the swing continued, she dipped lower and lower until her tortured feet dragged through the hungry flames and she screamed in agony.
Then she was leaving the fire behind, arcing up and away.  The landing outside the entrance door grew larger as she rose.  At the apex of her swing, she let go and flew through the searing air, stretching her body and reaching out.  She would have only one chance to catch that railing.  The alternative was unthinkable.
As she sailed through space, she saw three sooty refugees who had also chosen the doorway as their only means of escape.  Whether slave or Nazi she could not tell, for their dark figures were scarcely visible in the flickering, red glare.
She was heading straight for the men, though, and there would be no way for her to avoid them.  One of the men raised his arm, and Rose saw that he was pointing a gun directly at her hurtling body.  In a second, her leap would bring her so close that it would be impossible for the gunman to miss.

CHAPTER XIV
ESCAPE FROM THE INFERNO

The black muzzle of an automatic gaped directly at Victory Rose as she swung toward the three men on the landing.  She saw the gunman's forefinger tighten on the trigger of his weapon, saw the tongue of bright flame burst forth as the man fired a deadly shot.
But at the very moment the pistol blazed, a hand reached from behind and struck the gun-wielding arm.  The shot went wild and the next second Rose had plowed, feet first, into the group.  They all went down in a tumbled knot, but Victory Rose was on her feet before the three men could rise, the automatic now gripped in her own fist.  Amazingly, one of the men on the landing responded with ... laughter.  Beneath a thick layer of grimy soot, Rose recognized the familiar features of Alexei Kruszynski!
"My God," she breathed.  "Crush!  I thought you'd burned when the oil tank blew up."
Kruszynski shook his head and pointed to his ear.  The screaming of the dynamos had left him deaf for the time being.  He couldn't hear a thing, but had grasped her meaning.  "I'm here, darling, in the well-toasted flesh," he answered, with a flashing smile.
He had reached the safety of the stair landing along with the sole survivor from his guerilla band.  Nicholas and all the rest had perished in the ill-fated assault of the night before.  Along the way, Crush had grabbed Dr. Ulrich and dragged him out of harm's way.  The rest of the slave laborers, the hundreds of technicians, and the Nazi soldiers, had perished in the roaring flames below.  Even now, thousands of gallons of oil continued to gush from the ruptured tanks, feeding the ravenous inferno and beginning an underground firestorm that would continue until it had sucked the last bit of oxygen from the complex.
"We've got to get out of here," mouthed Rose.
Kruszyinski nodded his eager agreement, but as they turned, they saw another blackened figure struggling up the metal steps from the floor below.  The horribly burned man was crawling on hands and knees, bits of flesh sticking to the red hot iron as he moved.  Rose could not imagine how he could have emerged from that wall of solid flame, yet up he came.  It seemed impossible that he could live, burned as he was, with the skin hanging in loose hunks.  Only a titanic effort of will could have animated that tortured body.  It dragged itself upward until it reached the floor of the landing.
Victory Rose knelt down in an automatic response, even though she knew the man was beyond all help.  After years of war, she seen men endure all sorts of horrible, mortal injuries, yet remain lucid to the very end.  If she could offer nothing more than a comforting presence, that she would do.  As she stooped, the man lifted his head.  The lurid glow of the inferno played across his roasted features.  Rose staggered back as she saw the tattered ashes of a narrow moustache crumbling against his upper lip.
The men on the landing gasped in amazement, horrified to see the face of Adolf Hitler staring up at them from under a mass of sizzling blisters.  The Fuhrer's mad eyes rolled in agony and the long, bare teeth snapped open and shut as if his ruined mouth was trying to form words.
Ulrich was transfixed by the sight of the leader he had betrayed, now mystically appearing almost as if to accuse him of treachery and murder.  Kruszynski and his henchman eyed the naked, disintegrating figure with vengeful glee.  Here was the man who had ravaged Holy Mother Russia in a war of incalculable brutality, twisting in agony at their feet.  They spat bitter laughs at the Fuhrer's torment.
At the sight of the resurrected Fuhrer, Victory Rose had forgotten the pistol in her hand and now, without even realizing it, she raised the weapon.  She stared at the gibbering monstrosity that writhed before her, and before she knew what she was doing, her finger had squeezed the trigger.  The automatic bucked once in her fist, and a round hole appeared in Hitler's forehead.  She looked down at the smoking gun in her hand.  For a moment, she could not grasp the reality that she had actually put a bullet through the head of Germany's Nazi Fuhrer.  The blackened corpse flopped bonelessly upon the floor and lay still, slowly grilling as the flames continued to heat the iron.  Gradually, the enormity of her act dawned on Victory Rose's mind.  Adolf Hitler would torment the world no more.
Rose felt a smashing blow slam into her from behind.  As she fell, she looked back and saw Crush struggling to restrain his infuriated comrade.  The man screamed furiously at her until Alexei's fist connected with his jaw and he collapsed in a heap.  Kruszynski pulled the man to his feet and glared at Rose with accusing eyes.
"You should have let him burn!" he mouthed through clenched teeth.
It was not in Victory Rose to watch a living being endure hopeless torture.  Yet she understood the Russian's feelings.  Had she hesitated but a moment before firing, she might have thought twice before putting the fiendish dictator out of his misery.  She stuffed the pistol in the waistband of her pants and hustled the three men toward the door.
Suddenly there was a rending crash that even their abused ears could detect.  They turned in time to behold the spectacle of the War Trumpet, its steel supports weakened by the awful heat, lurch sickeningly.  With a slow, almost majestic movement, the great wonder weapon leaned forward and fell, like a great, molten idol crashing into its own sacrificial fires.  The impact rocked the chamber with shockwaves of heat and brought down sections of the ceiling as well as tangles of electrical cable.
The iron landing trembled and Victory Rose shoved her companions through the doorway before it could collapse beneath their feet.  In the corridor, they battled a freezing wind as the hungry blaze sucked oxygen to feed its hunger.  Papers and debris sailed through the air as they were drawn into the inferno.  Kruszynski carried the senseless guerilla and Rose dragged the old doctor as they ran through the complex.  The body of Hitler remained where it was, caught in the twisted iron railing and cooking over the flames.
The companions ran through the corridors, joined by a few of the technicians who had been working in other parts of the facility.  The little stampede of representatives from all sides of the European war fled heedlessly from the far more immediate threat of immolation in the fires below.  With gasps of relief, they emerged on the surface and staggered out under a starry sky.  They kept running between columns of thick, oily smoke that billowed out of vents and entrances that connected to the blazing installation.  The fugitives scattered in all directions, fleeing madly until their exhausted bodies collapsed on the rubble strewn ground of the city.  Rose lay breathless on the cold stones as her excitement waned, with her bruised limbs outflung and gleaming in the moonlight.
* * *
One of the German tank commanders pounded on the farmhouse door before he walked in.  Sergeant Cleveland and Colonel von Wolfram dragged their eyes open.  Both men had fallen asleep in their chairs.  Their wine glasses had fallen to the floor, forgotten.
Von Wolfram rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.  "What is it?" he mumbled.
"Beg to report, sir," said the soldier, "radio message from Berlin."  The man waited, not wanting to speak further in front of the American sergeant.
"Oh, go ahead," said the colonel.  "We may as well speak freely with one another."
With a final glance at Cleveland, the tanker spoke.  "Sir, it's garbled.  There's been some kind of attack on a military installation in the city.  One report says Russians.  Another mentions the American, Victory Rose."
The colonel's eyes widened at this.  Even Sergeant Cleveland, whose German was rudimentary at best, caught the name of his commanding officer.  Von Wolfram translated the rest of the message for him.
"Your Major Hardwyk is still alive, Sergeant," he announced.  "Or at least she was an hour ago.  We must hope for the best."
Cleveland's lips curved in a hard grin.  "Okay, Colonel.  Now we've got to find out where she's headed."
"I believe you've done right to position yourself here," said von Wolfram.  Unless she's dead or a prisoner, she'll head due west before the Red Army closes the ring around Berlin.  The Russians may be your allies for now, but if they believe the rumours that Victory Rose is the product of some sort of experimental treatments, they will hardly pass up the opportunity to study her if she should fall into their hands.  After all, in the chaos of war it would be quite easy for her to disappear and never be heard from again."
The sergeant agreed.  "So we wait and hope she shows up.  Monitor the radio for more reports if she's spotted."
"Correct, Sergeant," answered von Wolfram.  "And we deploy our forces.  If she does make it out of the city, we want her to meet friends, don't we?"
Cleveland started to unfold his map, but von Wolfram stretched out a hand to dissuade him.  "Let's use mine," he said.  "It's bound to be more up to date."
He opened the crackling paper and the two leaned over it in study.

CHAPTER XV
FLIGHT FROM BERLIN

The first fingers of dawn were drawing pink streaks across the sky as Victory Rose dragged herself to her feet.  She poked her head up over the parapet of an open cellar where she and her group had taken refuge after the War Trumpet was destroyed the night before.
She stood, bathed in the rosy, morning light, tattered but statuesque, beautiful and strong.  Her short cropped brown hair fluttered slightly in the breeze.  Rose's wounds had already begun to heal.  Her bruises were fading and the wicked gouges on her thigh had closed.  Though she was stiff and sore now, in a day or so she would be as good as new and would show no sign of the terrible punishment she had endured.  Although her face was smudged and weary, a calm confidence emanated from it.
In the cold, morning air, her breath made a smoky veil between her and the endless vista of the shattered city.  Rose's quick ears picked up a slight rustle behind her, and she felt Crush's hands drop gently upon her shoulders.  She spoke without turning.
"I'm getting Ulrich out of here this morning."
She felt him stiffen behind her, and continued.
"You know I'm taking him back to the American lines.  That's what he asked for."
She turned around and faced Kruszyinski.  "Why don't you come too?  In another day or so this city will be a war zone."
Kruszynski's teeth flashed in his soot-blackened face.  "Look around, darling.  The war has already destroyed this place, as it has so much of my own country."
"I mean," said Rose, "that very soon the Red Army will kick its way in here and there's no guarantee they'll bother to distinguish between you and any other male of fighting age they find.  This might be your chance to start life over, after the war."
"In America..." mused the Russian.
Rose looked down into the cellar where Dr. Ulrich and the remaining guerilla still snored on the stone floor.  The low grumble of artillery throbbed its dull undertone and flashes lit the horizon in the east and north.  The mighty Red Army was beginning the final steps of its long march to the west.  The unstoppable Russian juggernaut would soon overwhelm the besieged city of Berlin.  Once that happened, life here would become extremely hard and unforgiving.
"I need to find transportation," said Rose.  She pointed at the old doctor.  "He won't be able to walk out of here."
Kruszynski walked over and kicked lightly at the guerilla until the man's eyes fluttered reluctantly.  "Get the doctor on his feet," he ordered.  "Victory Rose and I are going to scout about and see if we can find a car."
"Find some food, too, while you're at it."  The Russian fighter patted his belly.  "And some water.  None of us will get far like this."
Much later, in the afternoon, Rose and Kruszynski showed up with a big, German motorcycle and sidecar.  As usual, Victory Rose drove and Crush rode in the passenger seat, holding onto a few, scant provisions they had managed to scare up.  After hiding the vehicle behind a ruined wall, the four comrades broke their fast with hunks of black bread and lukewarm water from a canteen they passed around between them.  Ulrich asked where the supplies had come from, but received no answer.  Neither Victory Rose nor Kruszynski were interested in talking about yet another German soldier who would never rise to help rebuild his war torn nation.  The four munched silently while each considered his own thoughts.
Dr. Ulrich wondered if he would ever really make it back to the American lines.  He swung back and forth between panic and a fatalistic acceptance of whatever might come.  He just hoped his end wouldn't be too painful if it did come today.  A direct hit from a bomb or a well-aimed sniper's bullet striking him out of the blue would suit him rather well.  Burning to death or being run over by a Russian tank, on the other hand, were only two of the nightmarish endings he envisioned.  He hoped to make himself very useful to the Americans if he should make it through for there always existed the dread possibility that they might hand him back over to the Russians in exchange for some other Nazi asset if they felt he was not worth keeping.
The mind of Victory Rose was just as preoccupied, although dwelling less on terrifying fantasies and thinking more of the practical aspects of shepherding the little band through miles of No Man's Land where Germans, Russians, Americans, or British might shoot first and ask questions later.  For as long as it took to reach the Allied lines, Death would be a constant companion, striking equally from the sky above, the earth below, or anywhere in between.  So far, Rose had managed to carry out every aspect of the mission as General Wingate had outlined it, from destroying the War Trumpet to eliminating all those who could help to recreate it.  Now she had but one more task to perform, in getting Ulrich away from the Germans and Russians.
The sun was nearing the horizon and Rose spoke to Crush, "You can ride on the saddle behind me.  Dr. Ulrich and your man can squeeze into the sidecar together.  It won't be comfortable, but it will carry us at least part of the way."
Kruszynski stood and shook his head.  "You need not risk traveling in such crowded conditions, darling.  My comrade and I have elected to remain in Berlin to await the final liberation."  He stepped toward Victory Rose.  "You understand, darling, that Dr. Ulrich is to remain with us.  He is far too valuable to risk out on the open road in these uncertain times."
The other guerilla watched carefully.  Ulrich's mouth gaped in horror.  Rose's only reaction was to rise to her full, six foot height and shake her head meaningfully.
Crush stepped toward her and his hands tenderly encircled her waist.  He gazed into her eyes with all the charm and intent he could muster.  "Darling," he breathed into her ear.  "After all we have meant to one another ... you must understand that Mother Russia cannot leave herself open to invasion again ... that we must have this defense against the terrors inflicted upon our people..."
He stepped back with a confused expression, then he looked down.  The barrel of Rose's automatic was pressed into his belly.
"I believe this is what you were looking for," she said.
Crush flashed his teeth in a dazzling smile.  "I stand defeated by feminine logic," he conceded.
Rose always fell for that smile, but unfortunately for the Russians it did not prove distracting enough to prevent her from seeing the other guerilla's furtive movement.  A knife flashed and the man lunged toward Ulrich, preparing to take him hostage.
But a blindingly quick movement from Victory Rose sent the knife spinning away into the rubble, and the man himself staggering back against the cracked bricks.
"You're way too slow to pull anything like that on me," she laughed.
Crush sighed and spread his hands.  "I tried to tell him."
"I think the travel arrangements have been pretty well settled," said Rose.  She put away the gun and pulled on a German Army greatcoat she had dragged out of the sidecar.  She tossed another one to Ulrich.  "Put it on, Doctor.  It's going to be a cold ride.  I don't want you catching pneumonia."
Ulrich, with visible relief written all over his face, snatched greedily at the coat.  His old-fashioned upbringing had not prepared him to think of a woman as one who could deliver him from danger, but these extraordinary times had turned all his old notions upside down.  He was happy now, to rely upon Victory Rose to get him to safety.
Suddenly, all four heads turned to the east.  From across the ruins came the distant drone of aircraft engines.  It was Rose's sharp eyes that spotted the Russian bombers sweeping in low over the city.  There was no way to be sure whether they had learned of the War Trumpet's destruction, or if this was simply another probe, but twin engined planes were roaring in, preparing to rain death upon the pathetic remnants of the Nazi state.  As the companions watched, the bombers suddenly ballooned in size, so quickly did they come in.  The few puffs of flak that greeted them were too little and too late.  In seconds, the planes had loosed tumbling, black eggs that erupted with fire and fury.
Rose jumped on the motorcycle and started the powerful engine.  Its throaty roar was heard above the din of exploding bombs.  She gunned the motor and then looked back once again at Crush.
"You sure you won't come along?" she yelled.  "Last chance!"
Crush flashed his brilliant smile.  "You Americans!" he called.  "You'll end up on the ash heap of history!"
"Who are you kidding?" Rose laughed.  "We'll bury you!"
The two gazed one more time into each other's eyes.  The European war had nearly come to an end.  Soon, this little space that separated them might turn into a gulf that would keep them forever apart.  Dr. Ulrich fidgeted, terrified by the bombing and anxious to be off before the Russians figured out some way to get ahold of him again.
Rose strapped a German army helmet on her head and waved.  Then she opened up the throttle and the powerful motorcycle rocketed away.
Crush stood watching, his hand in the air.  In seconds, Victory Rose had disappeared into those giant explosions, leaving him and Berlin behind for good.

CHAPTER XVI
ROLLING BATTLE

Colonel von Wolfram's little mechanized unit made its way east along the Havel River from Brandenburg.  The task of finding one woman in the German countryside seemed nearly impossible, perhaps mad, but the men were determined to do their best and carry out the wishes of their commander.  If they resented the colonel for snatching away their chance at freedom when the prize was so close at hand, they did not speak of it openly.  And so their battered vehicles toiled along, and the soldiers scrounged fuel wherever they could find it.
The Americans under Sergeant Cleveland followed along behind the little convoy.  They had only the halftrack and two trucks, but at least these were in reasonably good working order.  The groups kept in contact by radio and monitored the airwaves for messages that might help them to locate Victory Rose.
After five miles, one of the German trucks gave up the ghost and refused to go farther.  Soldiers and gear were redistributed among the remaining transportation.  This was nothing new to the men and they felt fortunate that they would not be forced to march on foot.  The delay was slight, and soon the battle group was underway once again.  The dead truck was shoved off the road and abandoned.
The hours went by slowly for Sergeant Cleveland.  All around, he saw a devastated country.  Hungry and frightened, women, children, and the very old stood by the roadside and watched silently.  These were the ones deemed too weak or frail to pick up a weapon and die uselessly to preserve the Fuhrer and his henchmen for a few moments more.  Cleveland thought he had never seen people so utterly lost.  Some of them, hoping he was here to save them from the Russians, waved little, makeshift American flags.  At last the tough noncom had to turn away from the sight.  He could not bear to think what the coming days would bring to these people, but part of him felt that they were only getting a taste of what they had inflicted on the world.
For his own part, Colonel von Wolfram stood erect and proud as he looked out the top of his Tiger tank.  No matter how this day's events turned out for him personally, he knew that this was the final military mission of his long career, and he wished to be worthy of it.  When he had entered the service as a young officer in the closing days of the First World War, he had dreamed of spurring the German Army on to the final effort that would bring victory.  In the years after, he had tried to set an example of service and tradition while the country dissolved into anarchy.  Like so many, he had owned reservations when the mad clown, Hitler, had risen to power.  And like so many, he had cast those reservations to the winds of wishful thinking when Germany seemed to rise once again under the leadership of the Fuhrer.  Now, with the clarity of hindsight, he could see how so many things had gone so terribly wrong.  His nation had compromised with the devil and would pay the price.  With his wife dead in the bombing of Magdeburg; his infant daughter lost, but hopefully alive in some orphanage although he would never see her again, there was little left for von Wolfram but to make one last attempt to do something right.  He had no illusions left, but he wanted to feel that he had done one small thing to help his country come to an understanding with the Western Allies now that all was lost.
The sun was well up when a jeep approached them from the north.  Von Wolfram examined it carefully through his field glasses.  He recognized the Russian uniforms.  He had seen enough of them during his years of service in the east.  The jeep sat still for several minutes as its occupants watched the little convoy.  Then it turned around and drove off without further incident.  A grim smile played upon Colonel von Wolfram's lips.  He had no doubt the jeep's driver would be back soon ... with friends.  He knew his own battle-hardened men had seen the Bolsheviks, but he passed a message back to the Americans.
An hour later, the first mortar rounds fell on the roadway.  A machinegun blazed away from the cover of a stone wall.  Sergeant Cleveland and his men watched in wonder the efficient, almost casual way the Germans dismounted and dealt with such a minor attack.  Von Wolfram declined to waste one of the precious rounds from his tanks' main guns.  Instead, the infantrymen knocked out the position with hand grenades and chased down the survivors.  It was all over in minutes with only one man killed and some minor wounds to three others.  The Germans seemed to think nothing of it.  They hopped back up into the trucks and drove on.
A few miles farther on, a shell whanged off the front armor of the leading Tiger.  Von Wolfram calmly surveyed the scene before locking himself down into his panzer.  Over the radio, he told Cleveland to move his unit back out of harm's way.  He could not ask them to open hostilities with their own allies.  In the distance, Soviet T-34 tanks churned across the muddy fields like great, iron monsters converging on a meal.  Squads of infantry swarmed in their wake to pick up the scraps.  Among the Germans, weapons were checked and booted feet ran to find battle positions.  The day's work had begun.
* * *
Victory Rose's motorcycle thundered down the road leading out of Spandau.  Her helmet was gone and her short, brown hair fluttered in the cold wind.  Her face was red and raw.  Dr. Ulrich huddled deep down in the sidecar, shivering and miserable.  For a long time now he had been wishing he had remained behind to be interned in a nice, warm Soviet prison with hot water and food.
All night Rose had twisted and turned through the western suburbs of Berlin dodging SS patrols, both real and imagined.  All too often she had been forced to backtrack several blocks as she found her path blocked by rubble or makeshift tank barriers.
At one point she had blundered into a German Army checkpoint and had been forced to come up with a fanciful tale of being a courier assigned to carry a high-ranking Nazi official out of the besieged city.  When, despite her acting skills, talk had failed her, Rose resorted to a different language that she spoke with fluency.  When she sped off, she had the men's weapons safely stashed in the sidecar along with the terrified, old doctor.
Now, after a night spent dodging snipers' bullets and shell holes, she was out in the relatively open country west of Berlin.  With a full tank of gas she had siphoned from a smashed truck, she was making good speed and feeling more confident than she had in days.  Suddenly, a bullet careened off the pavement in front of her.
Rose twisted the throttle and begged for more speed from her screaming machine.  Looking to the right, she saw to her horror three Red Army trucks full of men bounding across the fields toward her.  Guns were blazing but only a lucky shot could have hit her from the bouncing vehicles.  The trucks crashed across the ditch and skidded up onto the road.  One of the trucks took the turn too wide.  Its front wheel slammed down into the ditch on the opposite side of the road.  The big Studebaker rolled over and the lucky soldiers who weren't crushed under its weight were tossed high in the air.  The other two trucks roared after her without slowing.
Ulrich screamed as the hulking machines bore down on them.  Gunshots were cracking and now that the trucks were on smooth pavement, there was a real possibility of being hit.
There had been a good chance that Crush might have radioed the Russian commanders outside Berlin to inform them of her flight with Dr. Ulrich.  Rose would have done the same thing had the situation been reversed.  That these men had been alerted to look for a woman on a motorcycle seemed a good explanation for why they had taken off after her.  Now that she was discovered, Rose had to contend with the possibility that more Soviets might be called to join the pursuit.  As if they had been conjured up by the mere thought, she saw more trucks and jeeps thundering out of the trees toward her.  A small swarm of military vehicles had picked up her trail and was coming to take up the chase.  An explosion from a tank shell erupted several yards wide of the road.  Rose felt no fear of that.  The gunner must not be very good, to miss the road by that much, and she knew the tank could not catch her.
With an impatient motion to Dr. Ulrich, Rose pointed to the submachine guns she had seized at the German checkpoint.  The old doctor understood, and despite his fear he grabbed one and began firing back at the two closest trucks.  It was one thing to fantasize about warmth and food in Soviet captivity, but it was quite another thing to contemplate the realities of falling into the hands of Stalin's army.  Ulrich's aim was far from precise, but at least his shooting back encouraged the Russians to keep a little distance between them and their quarry.  The old doctor had served his time in the Prussian Army many decades ago, and began to enjoy the feeling of blazing away with a gun once again.  He began to forget his fear as the excitement of the moment took over.
With Ulrich shooting, Victory Rose was able to concentrate on the road ahead.  The scenery blurred on either side of her as she coaxed more and more speed out of the great machine.  The trucks began to fall back, unable to keep up with the hurtling motorcycle.  She leaned forward into the wind and allowed herself to enjoy the ride.
The road took a wide turn around a small hill and Rose leaned into it.  Suddenly her face went white and she grabbed the brakes.  The big motorcycle skidded wildly and Rose fought to keep it upright.  Dr. Ulrich was thrown backward toward the front of the sidecar, but she could do nothing for him while she had her hands full, fighting for control of the vehicle.
After a quick, but hair-raising moment of sheer terror, Victory Rose wrestled her motorcycle to a stop and stared in horror at the road in front of her.  Blocking the roadway, squatting like an armored behemoth of ages past, was an idling Tiger tank...

CHAPTER XVII
FLAMES OF THE PYRE

Germans in front, Russians behind ... Victory Rose stared up at the sixty ton monster in utter shock, her head suddenly empty.  The panzer's machinegun swiveled toward her.  Rose knew she had just seconds to act, but her body simply refused to function.  The unexpected sight of the Tiger tank blocking her way had temporarily robbed her of her wits.  Beside her, Dr. Ulrich squealed in panic.  Rose cursed her own inability to act.
Then the tank hatch swung open.  An officer in a tanker's black uniform popped out and shouted over the engine noise, "Victory Rose?"
Rose stared up at the man.  Now she was shocked again by the fact that he didn't simply order the machinegunner to shoot her down.  Was he just guessing?  She didn't know how to answer.
Dr. Ulrich solved her dilemma.  "Yes!" he screeched.  Whatever the reason that the tankers had decided to spare them, the old doctor was sure it had something to do with their belief that she was the famous American commando leader.  He did his best to remove any doubt the Germans may have had.
The officer ignored Ulrich and addressed himself to Rose.  "It is an honor to come face to face with you at last," he called.  "You have performed an amazing feat in getting this man out of Berlin.  I wish we could talk at length, but our meeting must be a brief one.  Your Sergeant Cleveland is waiting for you just two kilometers up this road."
Rose nodded and shouted back.  "There are Russians behind us," she warned.  "They're coming up fast."  Her statement was rendered unnecessary by the sound of engines approaching from the other side of the hill.
The German leaned down and spoke to someone inside the tank.  Then he straightened again and said to Rose, "We have called for reinforcements and we will hold off the Bolsheviks as long as we can.  Go now!"  He turned away from her and began scanning the horizon with his field glasses.
Rose didn't need to be told twice.  She revved the engine and shot around the tank as fast as she could.  She was hundreds of yards away when, behind her, she heard a huge crash and she knew the Tiger's big gun had fired its first round into the oncoming Soviets.  Before she had gotten much farther she heard several more.
It was not at all like Victory Rose to run from a fight, and even less in character for her to leave another to do her fighting for her while she fled to safety.  For now though, her responsibility was to complete her mission by getting Dr. Ulrich to the Americans.  She had mixed feelings about the old doctor.  On the one hand, she would not now be alive if he hadn't committed the daring act of blowing up the War Trumpet.  On the other hand, she was never entirely sure just what the wily old man's intentions were.  Dr. Ulrich's loyalties seemed to rest entirely with Dr. Ulrich.  She would not be unhappy to be rid of him.
The news that Sergeant Cleveland had somehow made his way out here to join her was a welcome, but minor surprise.  Rose had not wanted to unnecessarily risk the lives of any of her men now, with the war so nearly over.  But it was just like the tough noncom to take it upon himself to do a thing like this.  She would certainly be glad of getting the help to transport the Doctor back west.
Victory Rose flew down the road for the two kilometers the German officer had told her, and then veered off into a field where she saw three American army vehicles parked among a few battered German trucks.  Her motorcycle bounced across the rough ground as she drove the last few hundred yards.  Finally, she slid to a halt and killed the engine, the final leg of her impossible mission accomplished.  Rose leaned on the handlebars and blew out a long and heartfelt sigh.
Sergeant Cleveland's little camp turned out to be a makeshift field hospital.  A few wounded Germans and Russians lay in rows, bandaged and groaning.  Rose recognized the handiwork.
"Coochy!" she shouted.  And when the big man stuck his head out from behind a truck she said.  "You here too?"
"You bet, Major," said the medic.  "The gang's all here!"
DiMartino, Beau, Larimer, and Moses came running up, almost forgetting to salute in their happiness at seeing the return of Victory Rose.  Victory Rose almost forgot to notice the lapse.
At last, Sergeant Cleveland strode into view.  He walked with his perpetual slouch and wore his usual sullen expression.  He saluted carelessly and greeted his commanding officer.  "We figured you could use some transportation for the prisoner," he said, with a nod toward the sidecar where Dr. Ulrich still sat.
"I won't ask how you found out where to look for me," she said, and smiled as she watched him think fast for a reply.  She turned away and walked over to Dr. Ulrich, who was climbing out of the sidecar.
"Doctor," she said, "I leave you in good hands.  These men will do whatever it takes to get you safely out of here."
"Leave?" sputtered Ulrich.  "Where are you going?
Sergeant Cleveland also looked on with intense interest.
"I've got to go back," Rose said simply.
"But ... but ... why?" asked Ulrich.
Rose answered impatiently.  "Those Germans back there, your countrymen, just saved us from certain death."
The roar of big guns reached them from the battle still going on a short distance away.
"You hear that, Doctor?" asked Rose.  "That's the sound of your life being saved.  And mine too.  I'm going back to see if I can help."
"Give us a second, Major," said Sergeant Cleveland.  "We'll saddle up and go back with you."
"No, Sergeant," she said.  "Your job is to get Ulrich back behind American lines, and given the state of things in this area I think you're going to have your hands full doing just that.  I don't know if the Russians are going to break through here or not, but I want you to get packed up and get out of here now." She looked around.  "Take these wounded men back with you."
Cleveland assented reluctantly and saluted.
"And Sergeant," added Rose, "Thanks for coming.  I appreciate all you've done here."
The ghost of a smile passed over Cleveland's lips as he turned away.
* * *
Victory Rose roared back the way she had come.  Her motorcycle flew along the road at top speed.  The pavement flashed by under her wheels as she drove with desperate urgency.  In minutes, she reached the hill where the Tiger tank had surprised her earlier.  She braked hard and slithered around the curve, to be confronted by a scene of utter devastation.
Rose sat still on the big machine and looked out on a field full of burnt out wreckage and dead men.  Tanks were split open like ripe fruit and other vehicles had simply been blown to pieces.  Fires still crackled on the tortured ground and smoke soiled the spring air.
A lone figure staggered across the dreary landscape.  It was torn and blackened and it wore a ragged greatcoat that flapped in the breeze.  It stopped and stood facing a burning Tiger tank.  Rose recognized the tank from its markings as the one that had stopped her on the road.  She jumped down from her motorcycle and ran forward.
"What happened?" she gasped.  "Is the fighting over?"  She asked this even though the answer was obvious at a glance.
The figure turned slowly and blinked at her as if he had never expected to see another living human being again.  He seemed to have forgotten how to speak.  He was a lone soldier - weaponless, his helmet long gone.  He was the only living man left on the terrible battlefield.
Rose grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard.  "What happened here?  Who was in that tank?"
"He held them off," whispered the man, to no one in particular.
Then he looked at Rose as if for the first time.
"He held them off until the rest of us could get here."
The man's strength failed him.  He sighed and abruptly dropped to a sitting position.  His coat, which he had held tightly around him, fell open.  Rose could see that his body was awash in blood.
"The Russians fled when we came," he said.  "The other Germans chased them away.  I ... I couldn't move fast enough.  They said they'd come back for me."
Rose could see that no one would ever come back for this man.  "Tell me who was in the tank," she urged.
"He was our colonel," moaned the soldier.  "Colonel von Wolfram.  He wouldn't let them pass." He stopped and looked at Rose again.  "He wouldn't let them catch you."
Rose gazed toward the slowly burning tank.  Black smoke billowed from gaping holes torn through the armor plating.  "We'd better get back," she said softly.
Even as she spoke, she heard the first pops as machinegun ammunition began cooking off in the flames.  Bullets began to whine across the field.  Rose took hold of the dying soldier and pulled him safely back behind some wreckage.  She propped him up in a sitting position and together they watched as the ammunition for the main gun began to go off.  First there was one bang, and then another and another.  As the armor piercing rounds began to tear through its hull, the Tiger was suddenly surrounded by an awe-inspiring display of shell bursts that ripped hunks off the vehicle and cast a ruddy glow over the ruined armor.  Finally the gas tank was ignited and the war machine went up in a violent, orange fireball filled with explosions of the remaining ammunition.  Victory Rose gazed in wonder at the funeral pyre of Colonel von Wolfram, a man who had died trying to find his soul under a mountain of compromised ideals.  No one would ever remember him, but he and his men had died heroes, fighting to save their nation from a fate it had brought upon itself.
Rose turned to the young soldier.  His glazed eyes reflected the fires of the burning tank.  His face was still and peaceful.  She laid him tenderly on the charred grass of the battlefield and walked slowly back to her motorcycle.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE ROAD HOME

Victory Rose drove the big motorcycle back to Hamelin.  She rode slowly, absorbed in her own thoughts.  She sensed a change within herself.  Germany had not yet surrendered, but with Hitler dead it could only be a matter of time before the Third Reich realized it was dead.  The terrible spirit that had held the Nazis together through years of war was gone now, and the vermin would be scattering for their holes.  With victory in Europe all but assured, she wondered what life would hold for her in the years to come.  The very reason for her existence seemed to have vanished during her few days in Berlin.
On arriving at the American Headquarters, she discovered that Dr. Ulrich was already gone.  He had been whisked away as soon as Rose's men had arrived, taken to where ever captured Nazi scientists were kept while arrangements were made to get them safely back to the U.S.A.  She imagined him sipping champagne in some Paris hotel room and driving his guards crazy with his arrogance and fickle moods now that he was safely out of the Soviets' reach.  Her own men had been assigned temporary quarters and she was told that they would be leaving with a truck convoy in the morning, to make the long trip back to Mannheim.  After delivering a report to the local commander, Rose went to her own quarters, a private room in an apartment building and flopped down on the bed.  She fell asleep instantly, still wrapped in the German army coat she had worn since the night before.
Ten hours later, a bath and a meal helped her to feel human again.  These simple pleasures were an almost unbelievable luxury after her recent experience, and she reveled in them.  A clean, decent uniform made her look like a soldier again, but just getting rid of her own grime made her feel like a new woman.  Her men swarmed about her excitedly when she appeared at the doorway of their house.
"Major!" exclaimed Sergeant Cleveland, with his eyes wide and a big smile on his face.  At Victory Rose's surprised look he remembered himself and hung back.  The smile was replaced with his normal sullen scowl.
The reunion was short lived, though.  In a short time, the group was mounted in trucks and heading south.
Victory Rose leaned against the door of the cab and stared out the window, watching the miles roll by.  She saw streams of people, the first trickles of the great flood of displaced persons that would soon inundate Europe, as millions tramped across the wrecked continent, seeking homes and families lost to the years of war.  The pilgrims trudged along under a dripping, grey sky.
When the convoy stopped for fuel, Rose stood off a way and shook loose a cigarette.
"Light, Major?"
It was Cleveland.  He had appeared from nowhere.
The two smoked in silence, sheltering under a tree from the light pattering of the raindrops.
"Sergeant?"
Cleveland looked up at her, silently waiting for her to speak.
"Will you miss it?" Rose gestured vaguely with her cigarette.
"The war?"  He shook his head.  "Not a bit, Major."
They finished their smokes and flipped the butts out onto the muddy ground.  It was time to go back to the trucks.  The moment was ending.  Sergeant Cleveland spoke up.
"I think," he said, "that after a month in the Pacific we won't have much time for reminiscing about this place."
He trudged back to the trucks.  Rose watched his back and wondered what the next months would bring.

THE END

The Furher's Final Trumpet (c) 2004 by Stephen Adams.  Nemesis Magazine, Anvil Periodicals are fictitious creations of Stephen Adams and do not represent any real publication or publishing company, past or present.  Richard Maxxon, E.  Marshall Owens, Robert Barron & Yasmine King are pseudonyms for Stephen Adams and do not represent any writer or artist, living or dead.  Gun Moll, Rachel Rocket, Victory Rose, Femme Noir, and their images are creations of Stephen Adams and (c) Stephen Adams.  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from Stephen Adams, 307 S.  Montgomery St., Spencer, IN 47460.  Email: solitary_bird@yahoo.com <mailto:solitary_bird@yahoo.com>