The Fortunate Orphans 

Praise for The Fortunate Orphans

“If you are at all interested in World War II, the Greatest Generation, mystery, and unusual adventure, you’ll enjoy Craig MacIntosh’s tale.”

-Gen. John Vessey, USA (Ret.), former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and WWII veteran.

“The Fortunate Orphans grabs your attention from the first chapter, and then page after page of intrigue and suspense takes you to an exciting conclusion."

—Howard Lyon, former Chrysler executive and B-17 ball turret gunner.

“A gripping tale of revenge and the lasting brotherhood of soldiers.”

—Maj. Gen. John M. O’Connell, USAR (Ret.)

“As a veteran of WWII, I was caught up in the book’s early sequences. As an avid reader of mysteries, I joined the plotters carrying out their intricate project. Full of interesting characters and a well-conceived plot.”

—Ray Christensen, Army veteran, legendary WCCO Radio personality, and member of the Museum of Broadcasting’s Hall of Fame.

The Fortunate Orphans

"Showtime," mumbled Burt Swanson to himself. The former sergeant pressed the phony beard and mustache against his flesh one more time. He shifted into gear and pulled into the road. He drove slowly to the café and turned into the small gravel lot. Swanson pulled the vehicle between the black Mercedes and the café, blocking the Corsican’s view of Weismann’s sedan. 

The Corsican glanced up briefly as the Peugeot rolled to a stop. He saw two elderly men exit the vehicle. One steadied himself on a cane; the other, a bearded, stooped man, cradled a plaster cast on his left arm. Weismann’s bodyguard saw no threat and returned to his beer and newspaper.

"Now, Sollie! Go!" hissed Swanson as he shut the driver’s door behind him. 

The little man, ice pick hidden in his right sleeve, slipped from the van and crouched between the two vehicles. He used the Peugeot’s shape to cover his move to the left rear of the Mercedes and knelt as if to tighten a shoelace. When he was certain he was not being watched he let the ice pick drop from his right sleeve into his gloved hand and braced himself. He drove the pick into the tread and wiggled the blade to deepen the puncture.

When he wrenched the pick free, he heard a soft hiss of escaping air and the left rear tire began to slowly sag. Satisfied with his handiwork, Soleski slipped the steel pick back into his sleeve, and still in a crouch, retreated, keeping the van’s profile between himself and patrons at the café. He backed toward a stand of trees defining the rear of the parking lot and turned sideways behind a gnarled trunk to avoid discovery.

His part done, Soleski walked unhurriedly around the rear of an adjacent brick building and headed back to the village’s main road. He was to walk east until picked up by his co-conspirators. Sollie felt his heart racing and he talked softly to calm himself as he approached the eastern limits of Bois-les-Bains. He willed himself not to look back.