Operation Track

In the dimly lit room, a solitary incandescent lamp with a shadowy edge swung gently, casting eerie, distorted shadows of the surrounding torture tools on the ground. "Speak! Are you a spy?" bellowed a German officer, brandishing a leather whip menacingly. The man bound to the cross slowly raised his head, his eyes weary yet defiant. He shook his head slightly, his voice weak but firm, "I have Russian origins, but I am German. I am not a spy; I am German."

"This is your last chance. Take him out and execute him," the officer ordered coldly, straightening his collar with a sense of pride. He had to admit, the uniform was strikingly handsome. Wearing it made him feel different, powerful. Just yesterday, he had tried it on at home, and his wife couldn't resist giving him a passionate kiss. He mentally thanked Lieutenant Colonel Akado for the uniform.

As the condemned man was dragged away by two soldiers, the officer sat down on a bench, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply, savoring the smoke. From a door on the side, several officers entered the room. The lead officer glanced at the documents on the table and nodded in approval, while the others began a methodical search of the room.

"This is the 607th," the smoking officer remarked to the newcomers, his expression puzzled. "You've sent over a hundred suspected spies just this week, including French democrats. Eventually, they all end up being taken away by you. If you're going to execute them, why bother with an interrogation?"

"That's not for military personnel of your rank to know. We simply follow orders," one of the officers replied, his voice tinged with fear. Another officer, dressed in an older army uniform, added, "You're better off. Keep working in the Interrogation Section of the National Defense Forces. We'll retire after this task is complete."

The smoking officer smiled bitterly and chose not to respond.

At the execution grounds of the 7th prison, under the National Defense Forces' command, a group dressed in civilian clothes fired at targets with the latest PPT pistols, the bullets raining down relentlessly. Nearby, Akado, flanked by two officers, spoke to a bloodied man. "You have passed the combat assessment, soldier. From today, you are a member of the Shadow Force of the German Wehrmacht. You will have no name, no identity. Silence is your language, and the revival of Germany is your life. Can you do it?"

"Yes, sir!" the man replied with Prussian rigor and determination, despite his wounds.

"You will be deployed to the Soviet Union to establish our intelligence station. You'll infiltrate the Soviet ranks and gain their trust, stealing all the intelligence you can," an officer behind Akado explained the mission.

"And my contact?" the man inquired.

"He is codenamed Cyclops. Visit Red Square in Moscow daily, feed the pigeons while wearing a black coat. He will approach you. The code phrase he will use is 'The Holy Light hides the darkness.' You must reply: 'Shadow casts dawn.'"

"We will send others to find you. Assist them in settling in, but leave no trace of contact. Understand?" Akado instructed.

"Understood, sir!" the man nodded, then asked with a hint of hope, "When can I reclaim my identity and return to Germany?"

"When you die," Akado replied bluntly, causing a stir among the listeners. He quickly added with a smirk, "Or when your chest is covered with medals."

"Long live Germany!" the man saluted, his voice echoing over the sound of gunfire.

---

In the darkness of night, the cold waters of the Rhine saw several figures in black one-piece swimsuits approach the shore. A man in a suit, shovel in hand and a large bag slung over his shoulder, watched silently as they emerged from the water. As they stood, he spoke a single word: "Blood Sea."

"Yu Lan," the group responded in unison.

The man in the suit nodded approvingly, pointed to a freshly dug pit with two spades beside it, and instructed, "Throw your clothes in there and help bury them." He then motioned towards the bag, "Change into these clothes."

Once they had finished, the group climbed into a car driven by the man in the suit and sped off towards a nearby road. A rusted street sign reading "Lorraine" in German marked their path.

Inside the car, the driver briefed the man next to him about their mission. "The French have occupied this area and prohibited us from building military facilities across the river. We need to construct the Mackinaw Line secretly."

He handed out forged documents to the passengers, detailing their new identities. "Our top officer, codenamed Scorpion, will handle the arrangements on the French side. You'll be able to blend into their army smoothly."

"Long live Germany!" the co-pilot exclaimed as they disembarked.

"Long live Germany!" the driver echoed, his smile broad in the dim light.

---

At the bustling port of Manchester, UK, a passenger ship docked, and tourists streamed down the gangplank. Amid the chaos, a young British naval officer in a crisp white uniform greeted an older man descending from the ship.

"Uncle Greif, welcome back to England," the officer beamed.

"Thank you," the older man replied, his suitcase in hand. "It's good to be home."

"Germany was defeated! You were right to support your mother's homeland, but now it seems your father's country is the strongest," the young officer boasted, pride evident in his voice. "I'm now a trainee commander of a destroyer in the Imperial Royal Navy."

"That's impressive! You've made your father proud," the older man praised, patting his nephew's shoulder.

As they approached the nephew's car, a sleek American Ford, the older man admired it and mentioned his plans to purchase one himself. The customs officer, noticing the naval rank of the young officer, saluted and did not bother to check their luggage.

"What's in here? It's so heavy," the nephew joked as he placed the suitcase in the car.

"A pistol and a radio station. That's why," the older man replied with a serious tone, dropping his jovial demeanor.

"Uncle, you're joking," the nephew laughed, but the older man's expression remained grave.

"No, John. I'm not joking. Grey Wolf," the older man stated solemnly.

The nephew's smile faded, replaced by a look of concern. "Poison?" he asked.

"Poison," the older man confirmed.

Meanwhile, in Berlin, at the General Command of the National Defense Forces, Akado received a secret message. "Sir! The poison is in place! The first phase of the tack plan is completed. Three are killed, two lost contact, all else is normal."

"Abandon all lines that have lost contact. Use them to confuse the enemy. Promote the deceased soldiers posthumously, award them medals, and carry out the orders immediately. Report any developments directly to me," Akado commanded, his voice resolute.

"Yes, sir!" the officer saluted and exited.

Akado stood, walked past Grace's desk, and requested, "Coffee! Thank you." He then entered the room of his superior, Sikte, and reported, "My Excellency, the first phase of the tack plan is complete. We have eyes on Britain, France, and even the United States, though not all information is reliable."

"This morning, French border guards discovered four black swimsuits buried in a deep pit. They've demanded a thorough investigation and are scrutinizing our ambassador to France," Sikte responded, clearly displeased with the potential exposure of their plan.

"Don't underestimate our opponents! With such an extensive spy network, the details of this plan might already be on the French president's desk," Sikte warned.

Akado smiled reassuringly. "They may know we have a plan called 'tack' and are on alert, but they can't know the specifics. Only you and I are privy to the full details, General."

"Are these men in the right places?" Sikte asked, shifting the focus of their conversation.

"Yes, General. Within three years, the National Defense Force could potentially dictate the French President's schedule if we so desired," Akado replied confidently.

"Then let him lose some sleep," Sikte joked, a rare moment of humor between the two men as they laughed together, plotting in the shadows.