“Parachute jettisons,” Dan Coye ordered. “We’re being dragged.”
Gino had hit the triggers even as Dan spoke. The lurching stopped and the capsule slowly righted itself.
“Fresh air,” Dan said and blew the charges on the port. It sprang away and thudded to the ground. As they disconnected the multiple wires and clasps of their suits hot, dry air poured in through the opening, bringing with it the dusty odor of the desert.
Dan raised his head and sniffed. “Smells like home. Let’s get out of this tin box.”
Colonel Danton Coye went first as befitted the commander of the First American Earth-Moon Expedition. Major Gino Lombardi followed. They stood side by side silently, with the late afternoon sun glinting on their silver suits. Around them, to the limits of vision, stretched the thin tangle of grayish desert shrub, mesquite, cactus. Nothing broke the silence nor was there any motion other than that caused by the breeze that was carrying away the cloud of dust stirred up by their landing.
“Smells good, smells like Texas,” Dan said, sniffing.
“Smells awful, just makes me thirsty. But … Dan … what happened? First we had the radio contact, then that jet ….”
“Look, our answer is coming from over there,” the big officer said, pointing at a moving column of dust rolling in from the horizon. “No point in guessing, because we are going to find out in five minutes.”
It was less than that. A large, sand-colored halftrack roared up, followed by two armored cars. They braked to a halt in the immense cloud of their own dust. The halftrack’s door slammed open and a goggled man climbed down, brushing dirt from his tight black uniform.
“Hande hoch!” he ordered waving their attention to the leveled guns on the armored cars. “Hands up and keep them that way. You are my prisoners.”
They slowly raised their arms as though hypnotized, taking in every detail of his uniform. The silver lightning bolts on the lapels, the high, peaked cap-the predatory eagle clasping a swastika.
“You’re — you’re a German!” Gino Lombardi gasped.
“Very observant,” the officer observed humorlessly. “I am Hauptmann Langenscheidt. You are my prisoners. You will obey my orders. Get into the karftwagen.”
“Now, just one minute,” Dan protested. “I’m Colonel Coye, USAF and I would like to know what is going on here ….”
“Get in,” the officer ordered. He did not change his tone of voice, but he did pull his long-barreled Luger from its holster and leveled it at them.
“Come on,” Gino said, putting his hand on Dan’s tense shoulder. “You out-rank him, but he got there fustest with the mostest.”
They climbed into the open back of the halftrack and the captain sat down facing them. Two silent soldiers with leveled machine-pistols sat behind their backs. The tracks clanked and they surged forward: stifling dust rose up around them.
Gino Lombardi had trouble accepting the reality of all this. The Moon flight, the landing, even Glazer’s death he could accept, they were things that could be understood. But this…? He looked at his watch, at the number twelve in the calendar opening.
“Just one question, Langenscheidt,” he shouted above the roar of the engine. “Is today the twelfth of September?”
His only answer was a stiff nod.
“And the year. Of course it is — 1971?”
“Yes, of course. No more questions. You will talk to the Oberst, not to me.”
They were silent after that, trying to keep the dust out of their eyes. A few minutes later they pulled aside and stopped while the long, heavy form of a tank transporter rumbled by them, going in the opposite direction. Evidently the Germans wanted the capsule as well as the men who had arrived in it. When the long vehicle had passed the halftrack ground forward again. It was growing dark when the shapes of two large tanks loomed up ahead, cannons following them as they bounced down the rutted track. Behind these sentries was a car park of other vehicles, tents and the ruddy glow of gasoline fires burning in buckets of sand. The halftrack stopped before the largest tent and at gunpoint the two astronauts were pushed through the entrance.
An officer, his back turned to them, sat writing at a field desk. He finished his work while they stood there, then folded some papers and put them into a case. He turned around, a lean man with burning eyes that he kept fastened on his prisoners while the captain made a report in rapid German.
“This is most interesting, Langenscheidt, but we must not keep or guests standing. Have the orderly bring some chairs. Gentlemen permit me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Schneider, commander of the 109th Panzer division that you have been kind enough to visit. Cigarette?”
The colonel’s smile just touched the corners of his mouth, then instantly vanished. He handed over a flat package of Player’s cigarettes to Gino, who automatically took them. As he shook one out he saw that they were made in England, but the label was printed in German.
“And I’m sure you would like a drink of whiskey,” Schneider said, flashing the artificial smile again. He placed a bottle of Ould Highlander on the table before them close enough for Gino to read the label. There was a picture of the highlander himself, complete with bagpipes and kilt, but he was saying “Ich hatte gern etwas zu trinken WHISKEY!”
The orderly pushed a chair against the back of Gino’s legs and he collapsed gratefully into it. He sipped from the glass when it was handed to him; it was good Scotch whiskey. He drained it in a single swallow.
The orderly went out and the commanding officer settled back into his camp chair, also holding a large drink. The only reminder of their captivity was the silent form of the captain near the entrance, his hand resting on his holstered gun.
“A most interesting vehicle that you gentlemen arrived in. Our technical experts will of course examine it, but there is a question-”
“I am Colonel Danton Coye, United States Air Force, serial number ….”
“Please, Colonel,” Schneider interrupted. “We can dispense with the formalities ….”
“Major Giovanni Lombardi, United States Air Force,” Gino broke in, then added his serial number. The German colonel flickered his smile again and sipped from his drink.
“Do not take me for a fool,” he said suddenly, and for the first time the cold authority in his voice matched his grim appearance. “You will talk for the Gestapo, so you might just as well talk to me. And enough of your childish games. I know there is no American Air Force, just your Army Air Corps that has provided such fine targets for our fliers. Now what were you doing in that device?”
“That is none of your business, Colonel,” Dan snapped back in the same tones. “What I would like to know is, just what are German tanks doing in Texas?”
A roar of gunfire cut through his words, sounding not too far away. There were two heavy explosions, and distant flames lit up the entrance to the tent. Captain Langenscheidt pulled his gun and rushed out of the tent while the others leaped to their feet. There was a muffled cry outside and a man stepped in, pointing a bulky, strange-looking pistol at them. He was dressed in stained khaki and his hands and face were painted black.
“Verdamm …” the colonel gasped and reached for his own gun: the newcomer’s pistol jumped twice and emitted two sighing sounds. The panzer officer clutched his stomach and doubled up on the floor.
“Don’t just stand there gaping, boys,” the intruder said. “Get moving before anyone else wanders in here.”
He led the way from the tent and they followed.
They slipped behind a row of parked trucks and crouched there while a squad of scuttle-helmeted soldiers ran by them towards the hammering guns. A cannon began firing and the flames started to die down. Their guide leaned back and whispered.