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to be repaired. Although the American action had threatened to ruin one of his goals, their plans offered him, and Germany, the opportunity to achieve something even greater. Without any further discussion, Ruff dismissed Schacht and Paul. They had provided him with more than enough information for now.
    When they had left, Ruff leaned over his desk and buzzed his personal aide on his intercom. “Is the Ukrainian ambassador here yet?”
    A crisp, sharp “Yes, Herr Chancellor” came back over the intercom speaker.
    “Has he been briefed yet?”
    “Colonel Kasper is finishing that now, Herr Chancellor.”
    “Fine, fine. Please inform Colonel Kasper that I would like him to bring the Ukrainian ambassador into my office as soon as he has finished. And after you do that, inform General Lange that I will need to see him and his plans and operations staff immediately following my meeting with the Ukrainian.” Without waiting for a response, Ruff flipped the intercom off and straightened up. That effort caused a spasm of pain in his right leg, a spasm that began from a knee long ago shattered by a grenade and never healed.
    When the pain had subsided, Ruff opened a desk drawer and removed a highly polished wooden box. The box, measuring a little under a half a meter long, was trimmed with shiny brass hinges and a lock. Placing the box before him on his desk, Ruff reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small key.
    He paused for a moment after unlocking the box. For opening the box was to him a small ceremony to be cherished, something not to be rushed. When he was ready, Ruff slowly lifted the lid, revealing a black-handled knife in a black metal sheath nestled in blood-red velvet. Ruff ran his fingers along the knife, slowing when the tips of his fingers fell upon the Hitler Youth crest inlaid in the knife’s handle. This knife to anyone else would be nothing more than a piece of metal, at best war memorabilia. But to Ruff it was his sole connection to his youth, a youth that came to a crashing end in April of 1945 when all of his dreams and all of his hopes, like his family, were brutally wiped away by an uncultured and brutish conqueror.
    But even more than a link to his past, the black knife symbolized Ruff’s quest born in the tortured mind and broken body of an eight-year-old boy who had nothing, not even his dreams. The idea of using this knife, his knife, to exact revenge had soon been replaced by practical concerns of survival in a devastated and defeated country. But the desire to exact that revenge was never far from Chancellor Johann Ruff’s mind, just as his knife was never far from his side, ready to be used when the time was right.

CHAPTER 2
7 JANUARY

    While every wild gyration of the UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter caused Sergeant George Couvelha’s heart to skip a beat, Specialist Kevin Pape, strapped into the nylon seat next to him, was leaning back and enjoying the ride. To Pape, being in a helicopter zipping along, through, and around every fold of the earth at high speed was the next best thing to sex. You could feel every maneuver, every twist, every turn. Pape especially enjoyed it when the helicopter went up and over hills. As the pilot came to a hill or ridge that could not be flown around, he would grudgingly pull his stick back, causing the helicopter to pitch up and forcing his passengers down into their seats. Once he was clear of the bothersome hill or ridge, the pilot would thrust his stick forward, causing the helicopter to dive, giving everyone on board a momentary lift. One could almost feel his internal organs, in particular the stomach, move up a few inches as if they were floating. While it was popular to compare the sensation of flying in a helicopter like this to a roller coaster, Pape thought such a comparison was all wrong. After all, as Pape liked to point out, roller coasters were safe. Almost no one ever died while riding on a roller coaster. A helicopter, however, being