1945 (34 page)

The door had opened enough now and Jim dived out, slamming against the wooden side-railing of the bridge. Urged on by the sound of a Schmeisser hammering rounds into the car he had just exited, he tumbled over the side, falling half a dozen feet into the muddy creek below as the Schmeisser continued to search for him.

Looking up, he saw that one of Johnson's men had made it part-way out of the back door but was jerking spasmodically as half a dozen rounds stitched up his body. Another agent made it out of the car in a rolling tumble, but as he gathered himself to run, he took a hit in the shoulder that spun him half around and back to one knee. Before the Schmeisser could find him again he had regained his footing and sprinted around the back of the car and into the woods.

As this was happening, Jim heard a splash on the other side and saw Johnson rising back up out of the water, pulling a forty-five semiautomatic out of its shoulder holster as he did so. Feeling foolish at his omission, Jim fumbled for his own.

Aside from an afternoon's OSS orientation before coming down here, it had been years since he had last fired a handgun. The Thompsons and grenades, for which accuracy was no great requirement and might therefore have given him, with his off-the-charts reflexes, an edge, were half a dozen feet above him in the car they had just vacated. They might as well have been on the Moon.

With a suddenness that was nearly as startling as the impact of the first Panzerschreck, the firing ceased. Shouted commands echoed in the silence ... in German.
"Friedrich, Wilhelm, take the bridge! Two got out there; they must be hiding in the water. The rest come with me after the two who ran!"

Jim looked over to where Johnson was crouched under the bridge, pistol raised and waiting, then slid over to cover the other side. . . . What was that smell? Christ! Gasoline was trickling down from the shattered car overhead and spreading out on the water. If they stayed in the water, all it would take to kill both of them was a single match. Jim looked over at Johnson, pointed at the trickle.

Johnson, not lacking in courage, nodded and eased up the side of the embankment and peered over. An instant later he flopped back down into the muddy water. The top of his head was gone.

Jim scurried back under the center of the bridge, clawed his way up the embankment so that his back was pressed up against its wooden planks. Half a dozen feet from him the gasoline continued to spill down.... Since Leyte, the prospect of being trapped in a fighter going down in flames with gasoline spewing into the cockpit had been his special dread. A dull plop sounded near to where Johnson lay. What could it be but a grenade?

Covering his face with his hands, Martel waited for the end. But Johnson proved a better shield in death than he had in life. The grenade had fallen so that most of its force and shrapnel were expended on a corpse. What remained of it showered Jim with mud and bits of Johnson. An instant later there was an explosive
whoomf
as the gasoline caught in the backwater under the bridge ignited. The fireball washed around him, stinging the backs of his hands where they protected his face.

He had survived the blast, but unless he did something to change things, in seconds he would still die, and a far worse death it would be than merely being blasted apart. He uncoiled from his fetal crouch and slid down, evading the worst of the rising heat trapped under the bridge. A Schmeisser snarled to his left. He saw someone standing by the side of the bridge, crouching down and firing toward the other side of the creek, where Johnson's tattered body lay.

Jim raised his forty-five and squeezed off a round, catching his man in the leg, spinning him around. The man looked toward him, startled, as if Jim had somehow cheated by not being where he was supposed to be. Jim continued to fire. His next two missed, but the fourth round blew a hole through the Germans chest, causing him to collapse into the burning creek.

Just as he started to hope, the flame-covered water began to froth as splinters showered down from above and holes appeared in the wooden planking. Some bastard was shooting through the bridge. Jim aimed straight up ... no, the car was there ... he aimed farther back toward the edge of the bridge and fired off his three remaining rounds —the Schmeisser s track went wide in an arcing curve, and then fell silent. Lucky shot. Well, he'd had precious little luck lately.

Sliding through the mud Jim crawled out to the edge of cover offered by the bridge. He had to move
now,
before he succumbed to the fumes .. . scrambling up the side of the embankment, he crouched back down for a brief instant, and by the edge of the bridge he saw his second man—the bullet had caught him in the mouth. Lucky shot, indeed.

From the woods to the north of the bridge loud shrieks suddenly cut through the silence —the words were not comprehensible, though they were English. One more shot, and silence. Then more shots echoed in the woods. Schmeissers. A forty-five answered, but only once. Skorzeny s crew was hunting down the other survivor. Jim fought down the temptation to try to help. It, was useless ... he tried to block out the heart-rending cries of the last OSS agent after the hunters had brought him to bay.

Apparently they were trying to extract a little information before sending him on his way.

Nerving himself, he ran crouching to the car he had ridden in. The radio was smashed. He reached into the back seat, dragging out one Thompson and snatching the clip from the second. No longer at quite such a horrible disadvantage now, he slipped into the woods.

6:45 P.M.

Otto Skorzeny drifted like a phantom from tree to tree. The air was heavy with cordite. The stink of it competed with the smell of resin on the shoulder of his jacket from when he had brushed against a wounded pine. He slipped out of the woods and up onto the road and approached the edge of the bridge. He paused for a second, kneeling down to touch Wilhelm's carotid artery... nothing.

He crept up to the side of the burning bridge and peered over . . . Friedrich was floating facedown in the muddy creek, the back of his uniform smoldering from the lire that still flickered across the water.

He moved to the other side of the bridge and saw one of the two Americans half-submerged on the other side.

No, it wasn't him. There had been a moment of recognition when the OSS men got out of the car—one of them was Martel. He scanned the ground by the embankment, and within seconds picked up the trail: muddy tracks and, here and there, a spot of blood. The hunt was still on.

He held up his hand and motioned for one of his team to come forward.

"You were supposed to hit the middle car," Skorzeny hissed. "At that range it should have been impossible to miss."

Kurt nodded, unable to offer any defense for his poor shooting with the Panzerschreck. True, to call them inaccurate weapons was an understatement, but had he aimed lower, not tried for perfection, he couldn't have missed. "We tore the car apart anyhow," Kurt finally whispered.

Skorzeny fixed him with an icy gaze. "Friedrich and Wilhelm are dead because of your disgusting ineptitude. If we both survive I'll not forget this."

Kurt lowered his head.

Skorzeny continued angrily, "By missing, you gave them seconds of warning. Their leader was in that car! That means the radio was in there too. What if they were transmitting at the moment we struck? They could have gotten a signal out. The whole plan was to wipe them out before they could possibly do that. Now, we don't know."

Probably they had not been transmitting, but there was always the chance. A backup team—or for that matter a company of MPs — could be on its way, and they would not be taken unaware. He looked down at his watch. Six-fifty. "Get the rest of the team back to the hangar. Have the planes ready to lift off at the first sign of fresh company."

Skorzeny checked the flare pistol at his belt. "Keep watch. If I set off a flare, get the hell out. If I'm still out there at," he paused again and looked at his watch, "at seven-ten, set off a yellow recall flare. If I don't respond within two minutes that means I'm either dead or pinned down. In that case Gunther will assume command. Gunther; you get yourself and the men the hell out of here."

"You're not coming back with us now sir?"

Skorzeny pointed at the trail leading off into the woods. "There's something I have to take care of first."

"Couldn't I do that for you, sir?" Kurt begged.

"No. I want it done right."

The wretched Kurt nodded and turned away.

"Kurt, wait."

Kurt turned back, hoping for some other task of redemption.

Skorzeny motioned toward Friedrich. "Take his weapon and push his body into the creek. That should be within your powers."

Without waiting for a reply, Skorzeny drifted like wind-driven smoke into the woods.

Once clear of the road he slowed, walking softly. The evening dusk was starting to setde down. The fight was soft and diffused, the shadows lengthening. He smelled a whiff of smoke, a hint of charred flesh, as he followed the bloody spoor of his foe up to the road running parallel to the airstrip on the far side of the woods—and then he heard a vehicle approaching the bend leading to the bridge. He froze in place, waiting.

A battered pickup truck came into view and slid to a stop. Three men climbed out.

One of the three moved down the lane and approached the remnants of the little caravan. He looked inside the car closest to the road and quickly turned away. Gagging slightly, he told the others, There's five burned-up fellas in there."

The other two now tentatively approached as the first man slowly moved toward the second vehicle, and then froze. "Fellas, let's get out of here," he hissed.

"Shouldn't we see if somebody's still alive?"

"Man, this car's been shot all to hell. Come on, let's go and get the sheriff, before whoever did it comes back."

Never speak of the devil____

Otto Skorzeny stepped out onto the path. The three froze, gape-mouthed, as he raised his machine pistol and pulled the trigger.

The ripple of gunfire sent Jim Martel diving for the ground. It was behind him, less than a hundred yards away. The targets must have been the occupants of the pickup truck that had just passed by. Then he heard the crack of a branch. Rolling, he aimed his Thompson in the general direction of the noise. A shadow moved and he drew a bead, began squeezing the trigger...

He lowered his gun. "Wayne." Jim's voice was barely a whisper.

Wayne Mason froze, and then, recognizing Jim, he crawled over, dragging a German machine pistol.

"You scared the crap out of me," Wayne hissed. His face was covered with blood.

"Hurt bad?"

"Head feels like it's going to explode. His first shot grazed me, damn near knocked me out. The bastard had me. I don't know how the hell he got behind me, but he did. I think my bloody head saved my life. He must have thought I was dead, came up to, I dunno, search me, maybe. That's when I rolled and got him. I may not be smart, but I am fast." Mason laughed. "I guess he didn't know I was a fighter pilot in the Great Pacific War." Then his friend drew his hand away from his side and Jim saw the blood there too. "He got
me
again too, busted a couple ribs.... Jim, what the hell is going on?"

"We got wiped. Someone's stalking behind me."

Wayne peered up, silent.

"Where's your radio?"

Mason shook his head. "Shot up. Time for you to hit the road, and get some backup in here. I'll guard your rear. That's all I'm good for right now."

Jim didn't have the energy to be diplomatic. "No. I've got a feeling something's going to happen real soon now— besides, the shape you're in you wouldn't stand a chance if it's Skorzeny out there. Let's take care of this bastard first, and then figure where we go from there."

Wayne nodded. It was hard to discern his expression under the blood, but he seemed relieved. "Whatever you say, pal."

"I'll move to the edge of the road, you stay here. With luck, we'll cross-fire him."

Jim started to crawl away and Wayne reached out, touching him on the shoulder. "Next time, just leave me home with the women."

Jim forced a grin and began to move out to the edge of the woods on the road. He peered out.

The pickup truck was empty. Its doors gaped open.

He looked back into the woods. Darkness was closing in fast.

A shadow moved, crouched low. Jim came up on one knee and raised the Thompson, but the shadow was gone. A few seconds later the tree he was leaning against exploded in a burst of splinters.

Otto Skorzeny saw his target go down, but before he could follow up a pistol cracked behind him. The shots followed him as he dove and rolled for cover, but suddenly, just when he thought he'd run out of luck at last, silence returned. He heard a muffled curse followed by the familiar sequence of someone trying to work a stuck bolt, followed by the sound of the bolt slamming onto an empty chamber.

Never one to miss a cue, Skorzeny leaped up and forward, vaulted a fallen log, and—there he was. The man before him started to scramble backward, then froze against the side of a tree.

"Skorzeny."

Skorzeny looked down quizzically at the man. Beneath the blood, there was something familiar ... oh, yes. "Too bad, Mason," he said, the slightest note of regret in his voice as he raised his machine pistol.