1945 (35 page)

"Jim, it's Skorze—!" Mason's last word was cut short by Skorzeny's Schmeisser.

"Wayne!" Suddenly Jim was up and charging through the woods, holding his Thompson low and madly firing. Had he not tripped and sprawled just as a burst of fire snapped overhead, he would have died then and there, just as he knew his friend had. As it was, he rolled up against a moss-covered log and slammed another clip into his weapon. He leaned up over the rim of the log, searching for his enemy—and found his friend. The back of his head was gone, but his face was untouched, and oddly serene.

"Skorzeny!"

A taunting laugh, a flicker—

He continued to fire until the clip went empty, then slid back down for cover. He fumbled for another clip, and realized he was out. With that came a return to something like sanity.

He set the Thompson down and pulled out his forty-five.

"Too bad about your friend, Jim."

The voice was still taunting, still drifting through the
j
shadows. "I rather ... liked him ... but he should have ... known better ... than to come ... after...
me."
The voice steadied to a single location somewhere to Martel's left.

"Of course he had to, for friendship's sake, since I was about to finish you off. It must have been heartwarming to have a friend like that. You will miss him, will you not?"

Jim peered over the log again. He thought he saw movement and snapped off a shot.

"Hmm. Single shot? What happened to the Thompson? Out of ammunition already? Rather amateurish, don't you think?"

"I'll cut your heart out, you son of a bitch!" Jim screamed, meaning just what he said.

"Jim, Jim, we're professionals, you and I. Don't let emotion get in the way. It spoils the game." A low chuckle in the dark. "Don't make it too easy for me."

Suddenly a signal flare arced across the sky. "Well, Jim, you're in luck. I've got other things to attend to. Can you guess what they are? Goodbye for now."

Jim quietly moved back from the log, squeezed himself as low as he could behind another much smaller one. Seconds later a grenade plopped down where he had been. After the detonation he waited, hoping that Skorzeny would check his kill.

Even before the grenade had exploded, Skorzeny was sprinting back over the access road and down to the hangar. When he arrived Gunther was already rolling the doors back. From within the hangar he could hear the sound of the Cubs' engines turning over. He looked around, checking his team as Gunther tossed him the black trousers and shirt of an SS uniform. Skorzeny peeled off his camouflage smock and quickly pulled the uniform on, then hooked on his equipment belt and went over to his plane. Now if captured he could not be shot out of hand as a spy.

"Did you get them?" Gunther asked.

"One for certain. The other might still be out there, but all he has is a forty-five. Still, more help could be arriving at any minute. Time to leave."

"We just got a signal from Radl. They're crossing the coast right now."

Skorzeny looked around at his team. "We'll take off and circle until the bomber stream is within forty-five minutes of the target. Then we move in. Gunther and I will circle the town. Peter, you and Erich take the reactor. Wilhelm, you take K-25. Kurt, you fly with Wilhelm. As cargo. Let's go."

Otto climbed into the front seat of their Cub, and Gunther swung in behind him.

Wilhelm pulled out first, lined up, and pushed his throtde full-forward. Peter and Erich followed him out the hangar doors with the same procedure. Skorzeny, ever the stylist, revved up the engine while still inside. As the Cub lurched forward, he pushed in hard-right rudder to exit the hangar at full throtde.

Jim lay quietly for several long minutes, waiting for Skorzeny to make his next move. The only sound was that of the spring peeper frogs chorusing around him. Then he heard the engines.

Christ! He stood up and raced through the woods to the airstrip. From the hangar, a couple of hundred yards to his right, he saw the shadowy form of a plane emerge, turn so that it faced him head-on, and start accelerating under full throttle.

He ran toward the plane, cursing madly. When he was sure it could not take off before coming close he stopped.

The plane's tail lifted up as it gained speed.

Panting hoarsely, he waited.

The plane drew closer. His breathing slowed. Gripping the pistol with both hands, he crouched slightly, drew careful aim, fired, recovered, fired again until the clip was empty. The plane continued on. When he had given up hope, ever so slowly it nosed over, crashed down into the runway, and ignited.

Now, ammunition gone, he could only watch as the second and then the third plane lifted off. Unlike the second plane, the third stayed low as the pilot pushed in just enough left rudder to cause the plane to crab over to the edge of the grass strip so that it passed by not twenty feet away from where Jim stood. Otto Skorzeny looked down, grinning demonically.

And James Martel finally understood the meaning of hatred.

7:50 P.M.

Tallahassee, Florida

Karl Radl climbed back up into the crew compartment and squatted down between the pilot and copilot. Directly ahead a brilliant glow lit the night sky.

"Tallahassee," the pilot announced. "We're on schedule and on course. We'll pass it twenty miles to the west and then run straight up the border between Georgia and Alabama." The plane banked slightly to the left as the pilot spoke.

Karl looked back at the navigator, who was hunched over his plot board. He finally looked up. Two hours to target." "Any contacts?"

"Military channels are quiet. A civilian airplane reported seeing our stream as it started its approach into Tallahassee Airport. The traffic controller there is running an inquiry." Radl nodded. "Keep me posted. I'm going aft."

Harry's
7:57 P.M.

Martel had never had occasion to hot-wire a car before, but five minutes ago the principle had seemed simple enough. . . . Cursing, he kept fruitlessly touching the different wires from the ignition switch to each other, one after the other. Then, with a cough, the truck turned over. He eased the choke, giving the Chevy pickup more gas. The engine caught and held. Jim backed up and swung around, gravel spraying out from under the wheels.

After fumbling for the switch he turned on the headlights. The first thing they showed him was three bodies sprawled to the side of the road ahead of him. Then he was racing down the road, through the narrow ravine, and into the next valley. He drove with his foot nearly but not quite to the floor, barely holding the road through the twists and curves, torn between the need for speed and the utter importance of not wrapping himself around some telephone pole or finishing his trip upside down in a ditch. Though a hot pilot, unlike Skorzeny he had never been a racecar driver. Finally he saw a light ahead. A few moments later he p
ulled into the driveway of a small clapboard shack and leaned on the horn.

A woman came to the door.

"You got a phone?" Martel shouted.

"Hey! That sour truck!"

"Ma'am, do you have a
phone?"

"You got my old man's truck. What 'ya doin' with it?"

Jim thought for a moment. If ever there was an occasion when pragmatic need ruled, this was it. "He sent me back here to get some help."

She stood beneath the single bare light bulb that illuminated the porch, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Come on in."

He leaped up the steps of the porch and followed her 
into the house. Though it was obvious that money was a distant stranger to this home, the tiny living room and kitchen were neatly arranged. She pointed to the old crank phone on the wall. Jim went over to it, picked up the earpiece and turned the crank.

"Say, mister, you're bleeding."

"I'm all right."

While he waited for the operator to pick up, the woman of the house renewed her interrogation.

"Where's my Bill?"

"He's back at the airport."

"I ain't never seen you before. Who are you?"

"I'm with the government, and I borrowed your husband's truck."

She stared at him intently.

"You're lying. Something happened back there. I told him to mind his own business. But he and my brothers just had to go find out."

"He's all right, ma'am."

An operator finally came on.

"Could you connect me to the county sheriff, please?"

"Just a moment."

A voice finally answered.

"I want you to listen carefully," Jim said. "I'm just outside of Harry's Crop Dusting Service on Allison Road. There's been a shooting out here. Federal agents cornered the people involved in the killing of those cops over in Asheville, but they got ambushed on the bridge into the airfield. The bad guys got away. Several people have been... hurt." He paused and looked over at the old woman who was peering up at him. "I want you to send some people out here."

"Who the hell are you?" queried the voice on the other end.

"James Martel." He hesitated for a second. "I'm an agent with the ... FBI. Now listen carefully. I want you to call up the office of General Groves at Oak Ridge. Ask for Trevor Harriman. You got that? Trevor Harriman. Tell him that I called and that Skorzeny is coming by air. Do you have that? Skorzeny by air. Tell Harriman I'll be there within the hour."

"Score zany by air. Got it."

Martel hung up, and then cranked the phone again.

"My husband's been hurt, ain't he?"

Jim wanted to block out the woman and her pain, but couldn't. He looked straight at her. "Yes, ma'am, he has. But you just heard me call for help. Now I have to make another call."

She stood silently as the operator clicked on again.

"I'd like to make a collect call to Washington, D.C."

Jim gave the operator the number and waited for what seemed like an eternity. A distant voice answered at OSS headquarters and accepted the charges.

"General Donovan, please."

"I'm sorry, sir, he isn't in."

"Then get me one of his assistants!"

"Sir, not many people are in at the moment. It's Easter Saturday, you know."

"Locate someone for me. This is an emergency."

"It might take some time."

"All right. Then listen carefully. When you find him, tell him the entire team assigned to Skorzeny was wiped out.
Wiped out.
This is Martel. Except for Harriman at Oak Ridge, I'm the only one left. Skorzeny and his team have taken off in two Piper Cubs. I believe he's headed for Oak Ridge. For God's sake, get that to Donovan now! Tell Donovan I'm returning to Oak Ridge. Do you have all that?"

"Yes, sir. The team assigned to Skorzeny was wiped out. Skorzeny and his team took off in two Piper Cubs. You are Martel. You are on your way back to Oak Ridge. Where is Oak Ridge, sir?"

Christ. "Listen. For one magic moment the future of the country rests on your shoulders. If you don't do this right there could be a disaster. You might even lose
your job."
Jim slammed the phone down and turned to head out the door.

The old woman was standing by the door, still looking at him.

"He's dead, ain't he?"

Jim didn't want to answer. He lowered his eyes and tried to edge his way past. She reached out with a clawlike hand, grabbing his injured arm.

He gasped and the woman, hearing his pain, let go, but persisted in her questioning. "Don't lie to me. He's dead, isn't he?"

Jim slowly nodded.

She closed her eyes, as if praying. He wanted to stay, to do something for her.

"What's your name, ma'am?"

"Dottie Henderson."

He turned back to the phone and picked it up, ringing one more time. The operator came on.

"Ma'am, I'm at Dottie Henderson's house. There's been a tragedy here. Dottie has just found out that her husband is dead. Could you call some of her neighbors and have them come over?"

Without waiting for a reply, he hung up and looked back at her.

"Ma'am, I still need your husband's truck. I'll make sure it gets back to you tomorrow."

"I told him to mind his own business. I told him not to go."

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

He touched her lightly on the shoulder, then opened the door and sprinted back to the truck, climbed inside, and sped out of the driveway.

The Widow Henderson stood watching with empty eyes.

8:17 P.M.

Sheriff Frank Watson hung up the phone and turned to face his guests.

"Boys, I just got the damnedest call."

"We can finish this one hand now, cain't we?" one of his two guests asked with plaintive prescience.

"Games over, Lloyd."

"Well, wouldn't you just know it." Watson's deputy, Lloyd Yancy, tossed his cards faceup on the checkered oilcloth that covered the Watson kitchen table. Dinner was over, and Mrs. Watson had been sitting in on a more-or-less friendly game of poker. Normally Frank Watson was not the sort of man who left any doubts as to who wore the pants, but when his wife sat in, well, he had to admit about three times as much money stayed at home as would otherwise be the case, and there was no arguing with that logic.