Dirk had discarded the pack. It was lying on the ground. He was already cat-running toward the tensely listening sentry. He stopped within twenty feet. Sig stood stock still, watching him, hardly daring to breathe. Slowly, stealthily Dirk crept up on the sentry. Ten feet.
The sentry switched his weight from one foot to the other. Dirk froze. Sig felt his heart skip a beat — then pound the next one. Silently Dirk moved again. Five feet. Suddenly he leaped forward, striking the man a blow on his neck with his outstretched hand. The man fell to the ground.
Sig sprang into action. Grabbing the pack — My God! Did forty pounds weigh that much? — he ran toward Dirk, already at the vehicle. The grinning guard was sitting on the ground.
The vehicle was a German BMW R750 motorcycle combination. Ten days ago he'd never heard of one, let alone seen it. Now he and Dirk had to fix it — and drive it.
The cycle was battered and the sand-colored paint chipped. Must have picked the damned thing up in North Africa, Sig thought, as he carefully placed the pack on the ground. The spoked spare wheel was missing from the back deck of the side car, but the two Wehrmacht plates were still on — the long, curved one along the front-wheel fender and the one in the rear under the taillight. WH727694. The bike had been stripped of its armament — the MG34 unbolted from its seat.
Dirk was already astride the bike. He tried to start it up. The engine turned over — but did not catch. He stared at the motor. He made an adjustment. He tried again. No go.
Sig stepped closer.
Dirk was poring over the bike engine. He was frowning.
“The hot wire,” Sig said suddenly. “From the coil to the distributor. Check it. It could be loose.”
“Got you.”
Dirk peered at the engine. The damned hot wire was difficult to see. Figured. There—
“That's it,” he said.
He worked quickly.
“Grab the damned pack and hop in!” he snapped. He gunned the bike. It roared to life.
Spurting gravel, they took off down the dirt road — half a mile to Station #4….
Station #4 was at the stream. The flow had been widened to a width of about twelve feet. They were instructed to leap across it — preferably without getting their feet wet. When Sig had inspected it earlier, it had not seemed too difficult. What was the world-record broad jump? Better than twenty-six feet? Hell, this was less than half. But as Dirk brought the bike to a sliding halt at the stream's edge, it looked to Sig twice as wide as before — and his combat boots suddenly weighed a ton. Each.
“Throw me the pack,” Dirk called. He took a running start and leaped across the stream.
Sig swung the heavy pack a couple of times and hurled it out over the water. He was aware of the station instructor watching them. Dirk caught it.
Sig was already taking his running start for the jump. He pushed off with his right foot and sailed out over the water.
I'll make it, flashed through his mind.
At one thought-synapse he exulted — at the next the world exploded beneath him.
An ear-shattering blast slammed into him and a geyser of water shot up from the stream to engulf him and catapult him to the far bank of the stream, where he landed in a heap. Instantly he tried to get up. His legs were like oatmeal mush.
He was aware of Dirk bending over him.
“One of their little surprises,” he said, grinning. “There'll be others.” He spoke quickly. “Don't worry It was only a small TNT charge detonated under water. You'll be okay in a minute.
I'll get the damned pack up the slope. Get going as quickly as you can.”
He took off.
Sig was still trying to orient himself. He glanced toward the embankment. Station #5. A twenty-foot rise so steep it was almost perpendicular.
How the hell was he ever going to cimb it — without legs?
He tried to stand up. To his surprise, he was able to get to his feet. He started toward the slope. He was wobbly — but he moved. He looked up. Dirk was just crawling over the top, hauling the pack after him.
Sig started up the rise — and stopped in dismay. The cascading water from the explosion had drenched the earth. The dirt had turned into mud. The slope was as slippery as a greased pole.
He scrambled up, digging his fingers and boot toes into the wet ground. Halfway there — and he slid back.
He swore. He was getting angry. They were not playing fair, dammit! Nobody'd said anything about TNT or mud when he'd walked the course before. He resented it. But in the back of his mind a thought intruded upon his anger. The unexpected was happening. Certainly. But would that not also happen in the field? Could one ever plan for all eventualities?
He clamped his jaws shut stubbornly — and tackled the muddy slope again. He plastered his entire body against the rise and worked his arms and legs like a swimmer. Slowly — inch by inch — he oozed upward. Almost… He felt himself beginning to slip….
Suddenly a hand grabbed his fatigue jacket at the shoulder. He felt himself being hoisted up, sliding along the mud bank to the top.
Dirk was lying on the ground, breathing heavily. He'd anchored his feet around the heavy pack for added leverage. He was rubbing his left elbow.
“Come on,” he said, jumping to his feet and grabbing the pack. “Let's go!”
Ahead rose the grassy slope of a hill, and at the crest stood Station #6.
It was a solid fence eight feet high made of wooden planks. It had to be scaled.
Dirk was the first to arrive at the obstacle. At once he knelt down close to the fence and clasped his hands firmly in front of him, fingers entwined.
“Right foot!” he called as Sig came running up.
Sig was winded. He had regained the use of his legs, but they tingled as if they'd been asleep. He placed his right foot squarely in Dirk's hands and felt himself being propelled toward the top of the fence. He barely managed to catch hold of the edge, breaking his momentum as he tumbled over and down on the far side, landing on his hands and knees with a tooth-rattling jar.
“Catch!” Dirk shouted from the other side of the fence.
Sig looked up just in time to see the heavy pack come sailing over the top. He reached out and grabbed at it, cushioning its fall. It hit him on the chest, sending him sprawling and knocking the wind out of him. His ribs suddenly hurt. Hell, he thought cynically, what's a couple of cracked ribs as long as that damned Mason jar doesn't break!
Dirk jumped down to the ground next to him. He at once yanked the pack off Sig.
“Come on!” he called, loping down the hillside toward the little stream.
Sig followed.
Halfway down the staked-out path was Station #7, a large box placed on a spread-out half of a pup tent.
It was filled with hand guns. US Army .45 automatics; German Walthers, 7.65; 9 mm. Lugers ’08 and P-38s. All of them field-stripped — their disassembled parts mixed together along with the different kinds of ammunition needed for each weapon.
Object. Assemble two guns, one each, and load them with a full magazine.
Dirk upended the box, unceremoniously spilling the jumble of gun parts and ammo out onto the green canvas.
“Go for the forty-fives,” he said. “You pick out the parts and throw them in the box. Also the ammo.” As he was talking, he was already grabbing a slide and a barrel. “I'll assemble and load.”
“Okay.” Sig at once got to work. He was impressed with Dirk's division of labor. Efficient. And the .45 parts were the easiest to distinguish. He pawed through the jumble, rejecting and selecting….