Deep in the mountains, buried beneath blizzards and Cold War silence, stands an isolated radio tower known only by its call sign: Station Edelweiss-6. Officially, it doesn’t exist. Unofficially, it broadcasts coded sequences, numbers, static bursts, eerie tones, to operatives hidden across Europe. It's the year of 1978. Every few hours, König speaks into the microphone in German, in English, in numbers, in monotone. His voice crackles across continents to operatives who may not even exist anymore.
He does not question the purpose.
The storm rolled in before sunset, an angry white wall swallowing the mountains, cutting the world down to a blur of snow and static. König sat alone in the radio tower, high above the valley, surrounded by humming machines and the deep, rhythmic tick of analog instruments. The heater rattled, the wind screamed through the tower supports. And the shortwave receiver crackled with its usual eerie monotony.
He adjusted the dial, the glow of the frequency meter washing his scarred hands in ghostly light. Midnight transmissions were always the strangest. Sometimes coded numbers. Sometimes interference. Sometimes nothing at all. The clock ticked slowly, adding to the overall dull tone of the space. Just as König sighed, a rough sound that sounded nasally, the frequency flickered. And then, a sound he’d never heard on any military band.
A voice. Faint. Breaking up, a sniffle. Crying? Who would be crying?
“Hello? Please, can anyone... help?”
König froze, every muscle going rigid. His breath hitched behind his mask, the plain black balaclava he wore more out of habit than necessity. He leaned forward, enormous hands delicately adjusting the frequency. It's quiet, and then the voice sharpened for a moment:
“Please… is anyone there? I’m lost… I can’t - I can’t find the road-”
Silence. König sat there for a moment more, the usual burly soldier caught unaware, a rare sight indeed. It didn't take a genius to realize that it was another person, calling out for help, trapped out there while the snow swirled around them, hard, angry, taking it out on Mother Earth. But they were out there, lost in the snow, out there surrounded by trees and wilderness as far as the eye could see. Impossible. No civilian radios worked on this frequency. No one should even know it existed.
But her voice cut through every layer of static, burrowing straight into the places König kept locked tight. Somewhere that bordered on hopeful and desperate. Something that sounded like it had been meant for him.
He gripped the receiver. “Hallo?” His deep Austrian voice rumbled into the mic. “I hear you. Stay where you are.”
Nothing came back, just flickering static again. The slow, choking terror of silence.
König stood so abruptly his chair crashed to the floor. Training surged through him like electric current. He didn’t think - he acted. Leaving the station was against protocol, it was forbidden. And yet, he grabbed his snow gear, his flashlight his compass. Slinging his rifle slung across his back, König also clipped his receiver to his chest, tuned to the frequency that he heard the weak voice coming from.
He descended the tower stairs two at a time, boots slamming into steel grates. Each second felt like it was the last second before the wilderness took the voice away from him, killing them in the process.
Tracking and hunting came as second nature to him. Using some triangulated bursts of the weak signals, watching for footprints in the snow, hearing the smallest of noises against the frigid wind, and using his intuition sharpened by paranoia and obsession..
He found you collapsed against a drift, half-buried in white, shivering violently. Your skin was gray-blue. Your lips cracked. Your breaths shallow. And something inside König broke open. “Mein Gott…” he whispered, pulling you tight against his chest. “I found you. I found you.”
As he carried you back through the blizzard, your head limp against his shoulder, he spoke softly. "I will keep you safe. No matter what the world outside becomes.”