Dirk climbed from the cab. He looked around The truck was halted on a narrow road winding through steep mountains. They had obviously left the main road and were cutting across the forest to the Neckar River valley and Oberndorf. He must have been dead to the world for a couple of hours. Good enough. That was one thing you learned quickly in the field. Get your sleep where and when you can.
Sig made for the woods. “Be back in a few minutes,” he called. “Probably several pounds lighter!”
Dirk stretched. He started back up into the cab.
“Moment mal,” the German said, eyeing him. “Just a moment. While you are there, take a look at your bikes. They have been rattling around. You would not want to injure them.”
Dirk stopped. A warning bell went off in his mind.
He glanced at the rucksack lying on the seat. Dammit, he couldn't leave it there! His muscles tensed to grab it, but with a conscious effort he relaxed. No. It would most certainly be suspicious if he carted the damned rucksack around with him like the family jewels. He could not afford to kindle any suspicions in the farmer's mind. He would have to take a chance.
“I will look,” he said.
He walked to the back of the truck and jumped up. He examined the bikes. They seemed okay. On impulse, he quickly walked to the cab and peered in through the grimy rearview window.
A chill shot through him.
The German was bent over the open rucksack. He straightened up. In one hand he held the bottle of huckleberry brandy. In the other — the earphones from the OSS radio!
The bottle fell from the farmer's hand. He stared at the radio head-set….
Dirk leaped from the truck. He lost his footing and fell to one knee. At once he got up and raced for the cab door — as the truck suddenly leaped forward and started down the steep road, spewing dirt from its spinning wheels.
Sig came running from the trees.
“What happened?” he called. “What the hell's going on?”
“The bastard found the radio!” Dirk snapped. He looked after the truck careening down the road. Ahead of it was a sharp hairpin curve to the right. Dirk ran to the edge of the road. He peered down through the trees. A couple of hundred feet below he could make out the road — switchbacking through the steep hills. At once he started to race down the slope.
“Come on!” he called.
Sig ran after him.
The sound of the laboring truck changed in pitch as it precariously negotiated the hairpin curve, gears grating metallically.
Dirk bounded headlong through the trees down the steep slope. He riveted his full attention on the ribbon of road visible below, letting his pounding feet find their own path as he pitched down. The rough branches of the underbrush wrenched and tore at his clothing, a continuous flail of stinging slaps on his face and his hands, held protectively before him. He was oblivious to the gashes. He was aware only of Sig crashing after him — and the strip of narrow road below….
Almost there. He threw a quick glance toward the sound of the roaring truck. The speeding vehicle was just lurching out of the curve….
The trees thinned just before reaching the road. On the far side of the roadway the mountain fell away sharply. Quickly Dirk looked around. A few cords of cut wood were stacked at the roadside. He dismissed them at once. Too damned heavy to move quickly. A large pile of half-withered branches lay nearby. He headed for the heap. He tore at the thick, entangled branches. As Sig came dashing up, he shouted to him, his voice winded.
“Grab them! Heave them out on the road!”
He flung a bough onto the narrow roadbed and at once tugged at another, ignoring the sudden stab of pain in his arm.
Sig followed suit. He looked toward the on-roaring truck only a few hundred feet away….
“It won't stop him!” he shouted. “He'll ride right over them!”
“Get’em out there!” Dirk screamed at him.
A couple more leafy branches were hurled onto the road— and the truck came racing down on them. Without slowing, it plowed into the flimsy barrier. For a moment, sheer momentum carried it on, dragging some of the branches with it as it slewed down the road. Suddenly the driver stomped on the brakes. He was losing control. Some of the branches were caught and wedged in the steering lever under the truck. The front wheels had locked….
With screeching brakes the truck skidded along the dirt road, raising a cloud of brown-gray dust. It hit the shoulder, leaped across it and hurtled down the steep slope, caroming from rock to rock like a pellet in the tilt of a nightmare pin- ball machine….
Dirk and Sig raced across the road.
The truck was plummeting down the hillside.
Dirk stood rigid at the edge of the ravine. He watched the precipitate plunge of the bucking truck as if everything was being played in slow motion….
One of the bikes, flung from the truck, hurtled through space to smash into a tree, buckling instantly and wrapping its steel frame grotesquely around the trunk. Sig's?
The truck-bed gate wrenched off as the body glanced off a massive rock outcropping, shooting sparks like a giant flintlock struck by its steel hammer….
Bits of metal and splintered wood spewed from the body in a flurry of debris….
He saw the final impact as the front end of the truck slammed into a huge boulder covered with green moss and jolted to a stop, wedged tightly between the rock and a squat, weathered tree stump. He saw the windshield shatter and cascade in a glittering shower. A split second later he heard the crash….
For a moment there was utter silence — as if the entire forest was in shock. Then, as if with one voice, a host of startled birds set up a cry of outrage.
In the same moment, as if he'd been waiting for this raucous signal, Dirk — who had stood rooted to the spot at the edge of the road — jumped down and raced toward the wreck….
The truck was lying on its side, wheels slowly spinning. There was a dull whoosh — and flames shot out beneath the engine and the cab, licking upward. Dirk strained to quicken his scrambling rush. He caught his foot in a gnarled root, tumbled to the ground and rolled sprawling down the embankment. He caught himself and leaped to his feet. He glanced toward the burning truck….
He saw the German farmer slowly rise up through the empty cab window — like a lazy jack-in-the-box. Writhing, pushing, wedged in the opening, he struggled desperately to free himself. His horror-stricken face was streaked with rivulets of blood from a deep gash in his scalp. He looked around him wildly. He spied Dirk.
“Get me out!” he screamed. “For God's sake—get me out!” He twisted violently in the grip of the tortured metal. “My legs!” he shrieked. “Oh, God! My legs! They — are — burning!” His mouth opened in a cry of agony….
Dirk was at the wreck. He gave a fleeting thought to the big can of gasoline lashed to the back of the cab. In only a matter of seconds it would explode….
He leaped up on the wreck — and he saw it.
Wedged in the broken windshield, held by a jagged glass splinter, was his rucksack. It was burning.
He closed his ears to the screams of the farmer. He ignored the pain in his bleeding hands. He reached. The hair on the back of his hands was instantly singed away. He yanked and tore at the pack. It came free. He leaped from the truck, stumbled a few feet with the blazing rucksack and threw it to the ground. At once he shoveled dirt and sand upon it with his hands, smothering the flames.
He turned to run back to the truck. Sig, too, was running toward it….
There was a deafening explosion as the gasoline can blew up, showering the man wedged in the cab window with blazing gasoline. At once he flared up — a writhing torch. He tried to scream, but no sound came from his scorched vocal cords, seared instantly by the flames he inhaled. His hair flared up in a brief gust of flame, his eyes burst from the heat….