At the roadblock the MP's were pushing the barriers aside. The non-com stepped out onto the highway — raising his traffic baton….
Kieffer whirled on Marshall. He was about to shout at him, shake him…. He stopped. It would do no good.
Marshall was intent on the jeep. He played the ignition, the throttle, the choke, the clutch like an organ virtuoso.
The MP non-com turned toward them and waved them on.
Oh, God! Kieffer prayed. Let it start…. Let it start….
The engine turned over; it coughed… missed… sputtered and the jeep moved.
They drove through the roadblock. The MP non-com stood on the highway, holding up his baton, stopping the convoy so the jeep could join it.
He peered into the back of the vehicle as it passed. He was curious. He could just make out the figure huddled there. Imagine. Heinrich Himmler's goddamned nephew! He considered himself lucky. He'd come out of a run-in with a real Bonze—a real big-shot — without getting his balls crushed….
He gave Kieffer a stiff-armed salute.
It was returned with an impatient wave of the hand.
Staring at the truck ahead of him, Kieffer was suddenly aware of the fact that he was shivering with cold. The sweat that drenched him was drying on his skin.
He looked back at Decker. He wondered what the man thought. Had he known how close it had been?
“Colonel Adolf Himmler”—in a wrinkled raincoat and a grimy hat, petrified with fear…
He wondered if Himmler actually did have a nephew. Possible. He did have an older brother.
Anyway — Standartenführer Adolf Himmler had done a prima job!
Kieffer followed the progress of the convoy on his map. The Wehrmacht map was thoroughly detailed and he'd been able to keep himself oriented on it every foot of the way. They had passed through the town of Wittlich and turned onto the Bitburg highway, and he'd located a small country road which connected with the one leading to the rendezvous point.
But he had not been able to shake the tension which knotted his shoulders and chilled his limbs. Every time the jeep coughed or sputtered, alarm shot through him.
They were making excellent time. The convoy had slowed down as it made its way through Wittlich, a town only a little smaller than Mayen, but they were in no trouble as far as time was concerned.
He turned to Marshall.
“Jerry,” he said, his voice strained, “about a half-mile to go before we hit the side road.”
He studied the map intently.
“It's a wooded area,” he said. “A hill on the left; almost level on the right. There's a bend to the left. That's where the side road is — coming out of the bend.”
He looked up and peered ahead. The jeep was keeping the correct convoy distance from the two red dots on the rear of the truck in front of them. He turned to look back at the vehicle behind them. It, too, was observing the proper distance.
“Okay, Jerry,” he said. “Here we go!.. Pull up as close to the truck as you can. We should hit the turnoff in less than a minute. Just before you make the turn — douse the lights.”
“Got you”
“Once you're on the damned road — don't stop for anything”
They were only a jeep length from the truck in front.
Kieffer pointed.
“There it is!” he whispered.
At once Jerry turned off the jeep lights. He swung onto the dirt road and careened away through the trees into the gloom of the forest.
No one followed.
The jeep, lights out, was creeping along the narrow forest path. Ahead, the darkness grew less intense where a small clearing straddled the path.
Kieffer felt exhilarated. They'd pulled it off! They had it made… almost. Across the clearing was their starting point, the outpost of Able Company.
The ride back through the forest had come off without incident. Even the jeep had behaved. Either it was getting used to the Kraut rotor or Jerry was learning to handle it better.
They came to the edge of the clearing.
“Hold it!” Kieffer whispered.
Marshall stopped the jeep. He kept the motor running. He patted the dashboard affectionately.
“Good girl!” he said softly.
Kieffer listened.
Only the normal night noises of the forest could be heard.
He looked at his watch.
0337 hours. They were almost an hour ahead of time. He grinned. Who could have figured on a convoy escort to speed them on their way? Should he wait? Rendezvous at the exact time agreed on?
He looked back at Decker. Once away from the convoy, they had untied his hands to make him more comfortable. Kieffer hoped he was worth all the sweat. The scientist sat bolt upright, staring silently ahead. His drawn, pale face was a patch of white in the darkness.
Hell, no, Kieffer thought. Better get him back as quickly as possible. Before he starts to fall apart. Anyway, if we kill the damned motor we may never get it started again. He turned to Marshall.
“Okay, Jerry,” he said, “let's go. Home…”
Slowly Marshall started the jeep across the clearing toward the American outpost.
Any split moment Kieffer expected to hear the challenge—Homecoming! He had his countersign ready on his tongue—Highball! His eyes were riveted on the spot where he knew the outpost was dug in.
Closer…
Suddenly he saw a burst of flash points spit from the forest edge. In almost the same instant the deafening chatter of machine-gun fire slammed against his ears. The windshield shattered, showering him with glass shards. He looked over at Marshall just as the young sergeant's face disintegrated in a crimson blur and he slumped over the wheel. Kieffer threw himself from the jeep. He felt something punch him on his left shoulder, spinning him around. He hit the ground. He screamed into the night.
“Highball! You bastards!.. Highball!”
At the same time he heard a voice in the distance bellow: “Knock it off, you idiot! It's our guys!”
The firing stopped.
Kieffer knew he was to blame. They should have waited. Because they were too early, some trigger-nervous Repple-Depple GI had fired before asking questions….
He crawled to the bullet-riddled jeep — only mildly surprised that his left arm hung useless at his side. He was dimly aware of figures running toward him across the clearing.
He pulled Marshall from the steering wheel — avoiding the sight that seared his eyes.
He turned to Decker.
The German was slumped in the back seat. His eyes were closed in agony, his hands clasped tightly against his chest. Bright red blood seeped between his rigid fingers.
With his one good hand, Kieffer took the scientist by the shoulder. The man opened his eyes and stared into Kieffer's face — uncomprehendingly, accusingly….
“Decker,” Kieffer whispered, his voice hoarse. “You must talk. Now!”
Decker's lips moved.
No sound came out.
Kieffer bent down over him.
“Try,” he urged. “Try!”
“They — they have finished — setting up.” Decker's voice was barely audible. “Find — Himmelmann. In — Haigerloch — near Hechingen…. They are — close….”
He stopped.
“Who?” Kieffer asked desperately. “What were you working on in Frankfurt?… What are they working on?”
Decker's eyes — pits of anguish — locked onto his.
“Kernphysik,” he breathed.
He coughed; he shuddered. His hands relaxed — and fell away.
Kieffer pressed his hand against the open wound in Decker's chest, trying to stem the flow of blood. Help would come….