A jeep came careening up to them. Slim was at the wheel, Rosenfeld beside him.
“Hey! Come on!” Rosenfeld called to them. “That's not a picnic basket, for crissake! Get the lead out!”
“Don't let the bastard get your goat,” Dirk snapped. He did not bother to look up. “He's trying to rattle you. Part of the act. Keep the damned parts coming!”
“You're taking one hell of a time,” Rosenfeld taunted. “We were looking for you at Station Nine!”
Sig suppressed his irritation. Dammit, he was working as fast as he could. He could do without the gratuitous harassment from that clown Rosenfeld. Or — could he? What kind of pressures would he have to work under in the field? His respect for the obstacle course and its surprises slowly grew….
Dirk snapped the magazine into place on the second .45, pulled back the slide and let it go. He flipped the safety on and handed the gun to Sig.
“Loaded,” he said. “Cocked and locked.”
He started down the path toward the stream — and Station #8….
At the bottom of the hill the stream had gouged out a small ravine some thirty feet across. The steep sides were overgrown with dense shrubbery. A log had been placed across the crevasse from the hillside to a tree trunk surrounded by brush on the opposite bank. The little creek flowed placidly twenty feet below.
Station #8.
Gun in hand, Dirk turned to Sig.
“You go first,” he said. “Keep your eyes on the trunk on the other side. Don't look down. I'll cover you.”
Sig glanced at the log. It looked no wider than a strand of spaghetti.
“Trick is, run across!” Dirk said quickly. “It's easier. No time to lose your balance. Go!”
Sig ran out onto the log. He kept going. He suddenly felt completely confident. It's like riding a bicycle, he thought — the faster you go, the easier it is to keep your balance. It's only when you go slow you flounder.
Halfway across, two shots rang out behind him. He started, but he did not lose his stride. In the same instant a target in the shape of a German soldier jumped up in the shrubbery on the bank before him. He pumped two rounds at it. He had no idea if he hit or missed.
Another target jumped up and again he fired. He was aware of Dirk racing across the log behind him, firing his gun….
And he reached the tree trunk. It was a drop of six feet to the ground. He jumped down.
Almost at once Dirk joined him.
Together they ran through the underbrush.
A target flew up. And another…
They emptied their guns.
They did not stop to check for hits….
And Station #9 came into view.
Two tall trees stood opposite each other on either side of the stream — fifty feet apart. Each had a small wooden platform built twenty feet in the air — and between them a steel wire was stretched taut. A second thinner wire was fixed five feet above the first, running parallel to it across the creek. A heavy rope led up to the tree platform on the near bank….
Climb the rope. Cross the wire to the other tree — and climb down.
Simple.
There were two ways of trying it. One that worked.
You could hang beneath the heavier bottom wire on hands and knees and push across. At least, you could try. But half-way there you'd find that the wire cut into your hands and made them slippery with blood. You'd have to let go — and fall to the stream below. No one had ever made it that way.
With a forty-pound pack strapped to your back, it was an utter impossibility.
The other way was to walk the bottom wire — holding on to the top one, trying to balance yourself and keeping the two wires exactly in line, one atop the other. If you did not and they spread apart, you found yourself hanging with your hands on one wire and your feet on the other, parallel to the ground twenty feet below….
But it was the only possible way—if you could keep your balance with forty pounds of rocks and a Mason jar on your back.
Dirk shinnied up the rope with the pack on his back — although it was obvious that his arm bothered him. Sig, too, made it to the platform, but his hands hurt.
He looked across to the second tree.
Jesus! Had to be in another county — if not another state….
Slim and Rosenfeld drove up to the tree on the far side. Rosenfeld got out and leaned against the jeep, making himself comfortable. He lit a cigarette.
Dirk took his first tentative step out onto the wire.
“Come on, Wallenda!” Rosenfeld shouted across the stream “Do your stuff. Your audience is waiting!”
Dirk ignored him. Slowly he pushed away from the platform, grasping the top wire firmly with both hands.
“I brought a set of dry underwear,” Rosenfeld called.
Sig watched his teammate. He hardly heard Rosenfeld's taunts. A minor irritation. It quickly became obvious that Dirk had trouble balancing himself on the wire with the heavy pack strapped to his back. He started to sway. The weight of the pack made him overcompensate. He was losing his grip….
Sig reached out as far as he could. He grabbed Dirk's belt — and pulled him to safety on the platform.
“Shit and double shit!” Dirk said “That fucking pack's screwing up everything.” He stepped onto the wire once more. “I'll try again. I've got—”
“Wait,” Sig interrupted. “Take the pack off.”
Dirk looked at him in exasperation.
“Why? If I can't—”
“Don't argue!” Sig snapped with sudden authority. “You're wasting time. Take it off!”
Dirk stared at his companion in astonishment. Quickly he shrugged the heavy pack off his shoulders. Without a word, he handed it to Sig.
Sig at once unsnapped both the shoulder-strap hooks from the pack rings.
“Get on the wire,” he ordered.
Dirk obeyed.
Sig snapped one of the strap hooks onto the bottom wire and let the pack hang below it. The other hook he linked to Dirk's combat-boot strap.
“Slide it across,” he said. “Go!”
At once Dirk began to cross the wire. The heavy pack acted as a stabilizing weight on the lower wire and he quickly and easily pulled it along as he moved his foot along the wire. He was across in a few seconds. Sig followed as Dirk hoisted the pack back up and reconnected the shoulder straps.
Sig was within a few feet of the far platform when his foot slipped. He caught himself — but he was thrown off balance. The wires started to spread. Desperately he struggled to check their swaying. Bleakly he knew it was a losing battle.
He heard Dirk call to him.
“Grab my hand!”
In a glance he saw his partner holding on to a tree branch with one hand and leaning toward him with the other arm stretched out. Only a foot from reaching him. Twelve lousy inches….
The wires were swinging, the momentum increasing as they kept spreading farther apart. Any second he would lose his footing and be left hanging by his fingers on the thin top wire. He knew with absolute certainty he would not be able to hold on.
Dirk's voice seemed to reach him from an enormous distance.
“Let go the wire, Sig! Grab my hand!”
Let go?
He glanced down at the ground — miles below….
He let go.
He thrust both his arms toward Dirk's outstretched hand. He felt his feet shoot off the wire. He felt himself fall….
And his hand found his partner's reaching arm. With desperation he grabbed hold. As he swung down, one knee hooked over the bottom wire and checked his plunge Straining, Dirk hauled him to safety.
Sig's legs were trembling. His hands were sore. He ignored them.
He'd made it!