1945 (33 page)

He looked back into the bridge. A messenger from th radio room had just come in and was handing a note to th captain. Seconds later the captain came out to join Rommel, silendy handing him the note.

The message consisted of one word:
ARMINIUS

Rommel turned to the captain.

"Signal the fleet."

The captain saluted and went back into the bridge Within seconds the cruiser heeled over as it made a due-west heading.

Rommel braced himself on the bridge as the salt spray stung his face. In North Africa it was so much easier to lose track of who was the aggressor, he thought sadly.

Knoxville, Tennessee 4:30 P.M.

The team disembarking from the C-47 looked qui ordinary, much like a group of construction workers Martel thought as he followed behind Harriman on his way over to greet them. Having been acknowledged, Harriman started through the ritual of introductions, finishing up
with the man who Martel realized must be the leader of the group.

"Jim Martel, this is Fred Johnson. He's going to head up your little adventure."

At just over six feet, Johnson stood nearly as tall as Jim, but was maybe twenty pounds lighter. Jim thought he looked like he'd been a track man or basketball player in school. There was something vaguely familiar about him....

Johnson smiled. "Annapolis, class of'36. Same as you."

Sudden, embarrassingly vague recognition. Jim smiled and shook Johnson's hand. "Johnson! . . . how've you been?"

"Busy. Same as you," Johnson replied with a grin.

They walked over to a line of dark sedans parked along the tarmac. The rest of Johnson's fourteen-man crew opened the trunks and threw in their duffels.

"So what's the job?" Johnson asked.

Jim pulled out a hand-drawn map of the airfield and summarized the situation.

"Do you have surveillance there now?"

"Man in the woods with a Mark-2 radio. He's been checking in every half hour. So far nothing. They haven't stirred from the house or the hangar."

"What about the FBI?"

"They're chasing some lead at another airport. They think we're off the mark. Besides, they're stretched way too thin as is." Jim shrugged.

Johnson smiled. "They didn't find it, so it's not there, huh? Fine, all the more for us. What about the Ranger battalion that's supposed to be moving into Oak Ridge?"

They've got only one company on site so far," Harriman replied. "Another company is slated for arrival later this evening. Groves won't release any of them to us."

It was Johnson's turn to shrug. "I've got thirteen men with me. Plus you, me and your guy on the ridge, that's sixteen. They've got eight to ten. Easy odds. The game will

be over before it's even started. We'll move in fast and them by surprise. No sweat."

Jim hesitated for a moment, then said, "Skorzeny's the best they've got. Let's not go into this half-cocked."

Johnson looked at him. Suddenly his whole tenor h changed. "Ever done a field op before?"

"No," Jim replied flatly. "I've had a lot of combat kills, but I've never done a field op."

"Well then thanks for the advice, Martel." Johnson took the map from Jim's hand, turned away and motioned for his team to gather round. When they had done so he went on: "There's this bridge at the edge of the property. We'll have to turn onto it, so we won't be going that fast. But by the time we get to the far side of it we'll be going in like gangbusters. With our lights out, they won't know we're coming until we're on top of them."

"What if there's a spotter on the bridge?" Martel asked.

"They might have a spotter out there, but I don't think so. Whether they do or not, our best bet is speed and surprise. We'll give 'em the message before the spotter can." He nodded toward one of his men. "Gary, you drive the first car. If the hangar door is open even a little bit, smash straight in. Otherwise gain entrance as best you can. If there's any resistance at all, that's what Thompsons are for. I'll be driving the second vehicle. We'll pull up by the side of the house opposite the hangar and charge in. Kevin, you drive the third car. Your group holds back in reserve. You'll decide just what to do when you see where the action is. My bet is we'll all converge on the hangar, but we'll see, won't we? Okay, let's go to work." Johnson turned and walked to one of the waiting government cars and climbed in, motioning for Jim to join him.

Jim started to do so, then paused to look quizzically at Harriman

Take care of yourself, Martel."

"Not coming along?"

Harriman shrugged his shoulders. "General Marshall is coming in for the meetings with the Los Alamos crowd. Donovan absolutely requires an OSS presence on site for the duration of his visit. He gave me a direct order to stick with Marshall no matter what. Otherwise . . . otherwise nothing." He smiled painfully. "Besides, if it is Skorzeny you're tagging out there, I think we need someone inside Oak Ridge to rub Graves's nose in it."

Jim nodded in silent commiseration. Donovan was right, but it sure must be painful to be Harriman just now.

Harry's 5:40 P.M.

"Well?" Standing just behind the half-open hangar doors, where he could observe without being observed, Otto Skorzeny had been waiting for Gunther to return.

"We've got a strong radio signal, almost on top of us, I've been monitoring the channel for the last hour. We could have detected it from in here."

Skorzeny led Gunther back into the corner of the hangar where he had set up a portable radio directional finder. "Frequency?"

"Military, one of the channels used by their OSS transmitters. Here, let me set it for you." Gunther matched deed to word and stepped back. "He's been checking in every half hour. It's almost time for him to do it again."

Gunther leaned against the hangar wall as Skorzeny began to work the radio, his right hand on the directional dial. For a while there was only static, but then a transmitter clicked on.

"White Knight reporting. No activity."

"Black Knight, our guests have arrived. Expect us for dinner."

The signal clicked off. Skorzeny turned the dial slightly, centering the directional needle, and then sat back. "The

bearing points right down the runway," he said quietly. "He's sitting up on the ridge."

"'Guests for dinner,'" Gunther repeated.

"Yes. I think we ought to expect company before very long." Skorzeny leaned back, contemplating his options. It was still five hours until the strike. If they took off in the Cubs now, whoever was coming would have time to vector in fighters over Oak Ridge. The last thing he wanted to do was arrange for a reception committee. Even a committee of only two or three would play havoc with a stream of unescorted 264s coming in at low level. No, leaving now was out of the question.

"It's almost six o'clock. We're not supposed to leave for another three hours. Let's just wait. If they're going to do anything, they'll contact their man here first. If they've sent a heavy force we can block them, force them to deploy. That will give us time to get out. If it's a small unit..." He smiled. "They will serve as an appetizer before the main course."

"How's everything else?" Gunther asked.

"The flight's on schedule. The strike on Los Alamos just turned into Mexican territory as well, and no one's reported it so far."

Skorzeny went to the back of the hangar and looked out assessingly. The grass along the side of the runway was nearly thigh high. Then he moved past some crates to the comer door that led to the cellar and called down.

"Alfred, get up here."

Alfred's head stuck up through the cellar door.

"We've got company," Skorzeny said. "Take a Schmeisser, a silenced Luger, and a hand-held radio. Go out the back door. Use the high grass for concealment. Get inside the woods, then work your way down to the end of the runway. From there, ease up to the ridgeline and acquire our friend. We're pretty sure it's one man. If we're wrong about that, just call in and we'll send a team. Otherwise wait for further orders."

Alfred went back down into the cellar and returned minutes later wearing a camouflage smock. "Good to get out for some fun." Slipping out the back door of the hangar, he went down low and disappeared into the matted grass.

Nodding to Gunther to stay on the directional finder, Skorzeny joined the rest of his team where they lounged on makeshift cots in the cellar. "We are expecting some visitors shortly," Skorzeny announced as he went over to the far wall and motioned for some help lowering a crate. "All of you get into camouflage and be ready to move."

As he spoke he pulled the lid back on the crate and lifted out a
Panzerschreck.
Looking over at his men he hefted the beast and smiled. "Won't our guests be surprised?"

6:20 P.M.

Just South of Harry's

"Black Knight to White."

There was a click as Mason's transmitter came on line.

"White Knight here."

"Anything?"

"
As
they
say
in
the
movies
,
i
t's quiet,
too
quiet."

Jim looked over at Johnson.

"We go in as planned then," Johnson announced.

Jim shrugged and spoke into the mike. "Dinner in ten minutes. Stay put."

"Roger that," Mason replied.

Johnson leaned out the window of his car, motioned for the two vehicles behind him to get ready, and then looked back at Jim. "Relax. We have them in the bag, and the Pacific ace gets to be a hero all over again."

"Yeah. Right." So Johnson had a problem with that.... Speaking of the Great Pacific War, this felt worse than Leyte Gulf.

6:21 P.M.

Gunther looked up from the radio. '"Dinner in ten minutes.'"

Skorzeny grinned, and passed the Panzerschreck he was holding to Gunther, reached back into the wooden case for a second one and tossed it to Kurt. The third he kept for himself.

"Go. You know your positions!" The team ghosted out of the hangar, headed for the ambush site. After watching them go, Skorzeny picked up his short-range radio and clicked it on.

"Albert?"

There were three clicks in reply. That meant that Albert was sitting right on top of his target.

"Kill him!"

6:22 P.M.

Wayne clicked his radio off and raised his binoculars to scan the airfield one last time.

Damn, it had been a long twenty-four hours. Maybe, if they wrapped this up, he could still get back to Sarah by tomorrow night. Sarah—he was a bit nervous about it, but he couldn't wait to see her reaction when she saw what was in the little jeweler's box. He smiled in anticipation. Was it the six months she'd played hard-to-get, or what he'd got when she'd stopped playing? He wasn't sure. He just knew he wanted it for the rest of his life.

Suddenly he was dying for a cigarette. What the hell, in five minutes the game went down anyhow. Even if the bad guys saw a flicker, they wouldn't have time to investigate. It might even provide a distraction. Having properly rationalized what he was going to do, Wayne pulled a Camel out of his breast pocket and reached for his Zippo, opening it as he did so. Usually that was a cool move, with flame leaping the instant the lighter saw daylight. This time, it snagged on his pocket and, already lit, jumped out of his hand and made for the tall grass. Or would have, except that with a fighter pilot's unconscious speed he jerked forward and caught it before it landed.
Crack!

6:35 P.M.

There hadn't been much conversation on the trip in, and there wasn't any now as they turned into the rutted road and approached the little bridge. Had things not been so chilly Martel might have questioned the way their little caravan was bunched up. Well, he supposed, in a surprise raid you got everybody across fast, so that the target would not have time to react—bunching up being the price you paid for speed. He sure hoped their arrival was indeed a surprise, though. The car in front clattered onto the bridge, with the other two close behind.

"What the—shit!" was Johnson's startled comment as he saw a dark figure step in front of the car in front of them and raise some sort of tube.

Following a fighter pilot's instinct, Jim swiveled himself backward to "check six," and saw a second figure step out and point a similar tube at the car behind them. Before he could inform Johnson of that, a round slammed through the windshield of the car ahead and detonated inside.

Johnson had already slammed on the brakes, and while the car skidded on the wooden planks of the bridge slapped the gears into reverse. Just as the car started to accelerate backward, the car behind them, also on the bridge now, exploded in its turn.

"Out! Out!" Johnson screamed as he braked again.

Jim struggled with the door handle, and even as he jerked it upwards he saw a third round coming almost straight at him. The irrelevant thought passed through his mind that if he'd been in a plane he'd have had a full second to kick in aileron and rudder and maybe dodge the shot. The door was opening, but far too slowly .. . and the rocket-propelled warhead missed the windshield with nearly an inch to spare. Shrieking its frustration, the Panzerschreck round crossed the road obliquely to blow up a tree on the other side. The exhaust vapors that swirled in through the car's open window stank like Hell itself.