NUMA 6 - Polar Shift

NUMA 6 - Polar Shift

NUMA 6 - Polar Shift

NUMA 6 - Polar Shift

PROLOGUE

EAST PRUSSIA, 1944

THE MERCEDES-BENZ 770 W150 Grosser Tourenwagen weighed more than four tons and was armored like a Panzer. But the seven-passenger limousine seemed to float like a ghost over the cushion of new-fallen snow, gliding with unlit headlights past slumbering cornfields that sparkled in the blue light of the moon.

As the car neared a darkened farmhouse that lay in a gentle hollow, the driver gently touched the brakes. The car slowed to the speed of a walk and approached the low-slung, fieldstone structure with the stealth of a cat stalking a mouse.

The driver gazed thoughtfully through the frosted windshield with eyes the color of arctic ice. The building appeared to be abandoned, but he knew better than to take chances. White paint had been hastily slapped over the car's sculpted black steel body. The crude attempt at camouflage made the automobile practically invisible to the Stormovic ground attack planes that prowled the skies like angry hawks, but the Mercedes had barely escaped the Russian patrols that materialized out of the snow like wraiths. Rifle bullets had cratered the armor in a dozen places.

So he waited.

The man stretched out on the spacious backseat of the four-door sedan had felt the car decelerate. He sat up and blinked the sleep out of his eyes.

“What is it?” he asked, speaking German with a Hungarian accent. His voice was fuzzy from sleep.

The driver hushed his passenger. “Something's not—”

The rattle of gunfire shattered the glassy stillness of the night.

The driver mashed the brake pedal. The massive vehicle hissed to a skidding stop about fifty yards from the farmhouse. He switched off the engine and snatched the 9 mm Lugar pistol from the front seat. His fingers tightened on the Lugar's grip as a burly figure dressed in the olive uniform and fur hat of the Red Army staggered out the front door of the farmhouse.

The soldier was clutching his arm and bellowing like a bee-stung bull.

“Damn fascist whore!” he bawled repeatedly. His voice was hoarse with rage and pain.

The Russian soldier had broken into the farmhouse only minutes before. The farm couple had been hiding in a closet, huddling under a blanket like children afraid of the dark. He had put a bullet in the husband and turned his attention to the woman, who had fled into the tiny kitchen.

Shouldering his weapon, he had crooked his finger and crooned, “Frau, komm,” the soothing prelude to rape.