The tropical storm had broken hours before Bruno's arrival, leaving the airfield slick with rain and diesel, the ground shining beneath floodlights like a sheet of black glass.
Tyrolean guards stood rigid at attention despite the humidity, their greatcoats perfectly pressed, boots immaculate, uniforms immaculate in a place where nothing else was.
The men waiting on the tarmac, Erich's brigade, had done their best to square away their appearance in what was essentially the smoldering ruins of what had been an active combat zone just a few months prior.
They stood in formation because they refused not to. They were airborne, and they had been the knife that dealt the fatal wound to Manila when no one else could.
They would stand before the Reichsmarschall or die trying.
The engines of the arriving aircraft thundered as a great, its wheels kissed the runway with a low screech, rolling to a controlled halt.
