Dirk turned to him.
“You're okay, Siggy baby!” he said with a huge grin. He began to climb down the tree. “Onward and downward!” he called. “Station Ten waits without!”
Slim and Rosenfeld were nowhere to be seen as they arrived at Station #10 at a trot.
Sig was breathing heavily. The pace was beginning to tell. His legs were leaden. His chest ached as he gulped air.
How long?
It seemed hours….
At Station #10 a small spring trickled down the hill toward the creek, running parallel to it for a short distance before joining it. Erosion had carved out a narrow stream bed, providing a hundred feet or so of defiladed area. A shallow ditch. On the side away from the creek the hill rose again.
Ducking down in an awkward, crouching run, it was possible to move through the muddy stream bed of the little tributary, protected from enemy observation — and fire.
Sig was running in the lead. His back hurt. The muscles in his calves and thighs knotted and pulled from the cramped, crouched gait. He suddenly dreaded getting a charley horse. Not now, please God, not now…!
Suddenly the staccato coughs of machine-gun fire shattered the silence. Sig jumped with shock. Then he remembered. Blanks They were shooting blanks — to give realism to the problem.
Blanks?
They were not blanks! He was all at once vividly aware of the plops and sprays of dirt that erupted as the rounds slammed into the hillside beyond.
They were shooting live ammunition, dammit! Another of their goddamned surprises.
“Hit the dirt!” Dirk shouted.
Sig threw himself into the muddy water at the bottom of the ditch.
“And keep your butt down — unless you want a second crease in your ass!” Dirk finished.
Sig crawled on as fast as he could. He had been badly startled, even though reason assured him the bullets were whizzing well above him. He did not raise his head to find out.
After the shooting-gallery crawl, Stations #11 and #12 were almost like amusement-park rides — easy, had he not been exhausted to the point of pain:
Climbing the tree at #11, leaping into space to grab hold of a rope six feet out and sliding down… Making like a GI Tarzan at #12, swinging on a chain across the stream at a widened stretch…
Every muscle in Sig's body protested at the abuse, and fatigue dulled his brain.
Dirk's old injuries were obviously giving him trouble; he was favoring his left arm.
But they both plodded on. Running, stumbling — making headway.
Finally they stood before Station #13.
The barn.
A vehicle was parked at the corner of the massive, windowless building. An Army ambulance. Two attendants were sitting on the ground, leaning against the barn. They eyed Dirk and Sig curiously as they made for the single door leading into it.
Sig had a twinge of apprehension. Ambulance? What the hell for?.
And Dirk threw open the door.
The room immediately inside was unexpectedly small, its walls of unfinished lumber. It was lit by two strong naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Behind a plain table in the middle of the floor sat Major Rosenfeld. Gone were his taunts, his levity. He looked sober. Grim. He pointed to two piles of ammunition lying on the table before him.
“Six rounds each,” he said. “Load your guns.”
Dirk and Sig at once began to load their magazines. Rosenfeld watched them solemnly.
“This is the last station,” he said quietly. He glanced back over his shoulder. “You will go through the door behind me.” He placed a stopwatch on the table before him. “You will have exactly seven minutes. If you do not reach the exit at the other end of the barn within that time, you will have failed the entire course.”
He looked searchingly at them. “Ready?”
They nodded.
Sig's hands were suddenly clammy. What the hell — it was only a test. What could happen to him?
Rosenfeld stood up. He picked up the stopwatch.
“Stand by the door,” he said.
Dirk and Sig took up positions facing the door, guns ready.
“Remember what you have been taught,” Rosenfeld said softly, his voice concerned. “If — if anything should happen, we'll be standing by.” He looked from one to the other. “Be— be careful!”
He held up the watch.
“Go'” he said.
They entered.
The door closed behind them with the emphasis of finality.
They peered ahead….
Sig could not shake the feeling of apprehension. Why the hell was Rosenfeld so damned gloomy? What did lie ahead of them?
The wide, bare corridor in front of them was lit only by dim bulbs set far apart in the ceiling.
For a moment they stood stock still. Gradually their eyes adjusted to the faint light.
Dirk gestured to Sig. Take the right side. He himself moved toward the left. Slowly, cautiously they started down the corridor.
And the lights went out.
The place was suddenly shrouded in total darkness.
Sig started.
He clutched his gun before him, locked firmly against his abdomen as he had been taught.
Where was Dirk?
He strained every nerve to distinguish any sight or sound. He heard Dirk whisper.
“Move to the center, Sig We've got to stay together.”
“Right.” Sig's whisper came out hoarse and strained. Slowly he moved toward the middle of the corridor, feeling his way with his feet.
Where was Dirk?
He must be almost to the left wall by now. Where the hell was Dirk?
The soft whisper came only inches from his ear.
“Okay. Let's move on. You cover the right. I'll take the left. No use shooting the balls off each other.”
Suddenly the rough floorboards under Sig gave way, sagging down several inches, creaking loudly.
Involuntarily his finger tightened on the trigger — but in the last instant he caught himself and eased off.
They went on.
The gloom was impenetrable. Sig felt strangely disembodied. The absolute darkness seemed to permeate his whole being. He felt gripped by a tension greater than any he had ever experienced.
He almost screamed when something brushed softly across his face. He stopped dead. He had a flash impulse to turn and run back. The specter of panic bloated and trembled in his mind. Then he was aware of Dirk standing next to him.
“Burlap,” Dirk whispered. “Strips of fucking burlap!”
Sig reached up. He felt around in the blackness, somehow surprised that it wasn't solid. Several pieces of shredded burlap were hanging across the corridor at face height.
They kept going.
Suddenly a door in the right corridor wall creaked open, spilling a faint yellow light onto the floor.
Both men whirled on the door. They froze.
Sig threw a quick glance at his partner. The dim light from the open door was barely enough to be able to make him out.
Dirk motioned to him. On the floor. Cover me. I'll move in! He understood at once.
Noiselessly they moved toward the open door.
Not a sound was to be heard.
Nothing moved.
They stopped.
Dirk nodded to Sig.
At once Sig hurled himself to the floor in the doorway — his gun held out in front of him—
In the same split instant Dirk crashed through the open door—
The small room beyond was completely empty.
They resumed their slow progress down the corridor. A few feet farther on, it turned sharply to the left. A dim light seeped around the corner.
Sig felt his body harden with tension. Something had to happen. What? When?
They negotiated the corner. The corridor made a sharp U-turn and continued. Once again a string of dim bulbs cast a faint light from above. Several stacks of crates and boxes lined the walls.