In the darkness under the boxcar Bob Crosby watched the unloading. Who were these people? They sounded like Americans, but the thin one had muttered something in German. And they had killed everyone, everyone but him.
Not three feet away from his hiding place, within reach of a lunge, one of them had placed a fearsome-looking machine gun, leaned against the rail beneath the door. The shiny metal had an almost hypnotic appeal lying there, just lying there, but he silently fought the desire to make that lunge. What business was it of his? But he liked guns, had always been fascinated by them…
No, they’d soon be gone—“One more” someone had just said. Then he’d be gone, too, far away from all this. He could see the upturned face of one of the troopers lying by the track, the hole where his left eye should have been.
They were standing in a group now, over by the camper, talking. Eight legs in all. Perhaps they’d forgotten the gun, would leave it behind, and he could try it once before taking off. He could even sell it — no, that was stupid. There was movement now: one pair of legs had disappeared. He wriggled his body around to get a better view and his leg slipped off the girder. For a second he teetered, thought he was going to fall, but with a supreme effort managed to lower himself to the ground, causing only a soft thud as his legs dropped onto the ballast between the tracks.
They’d stopped talking. Had they heard anything? His breathing sounded too loud. Shit! One pair of legs walked back toward the train; he had to do something fast. He squirmed across the rail and took the gun in his hands. The legs stopped their approach; the stream gurgled in the silence. He got to his feet, leaned against the side of the boxcar, wondering how to do it. He remembered the Marines training film — run, roll, and fire. Surprise was everything. He could do it.
Taking a deep breath, he took off, rushing along the back of the train, conscious of shouts and other feet running after him. Bursting into the field of light at the rear, he threw himself into a perfect roll, just the way he’d practiced in the garden at home, and pulled the trigger. He had a flashing glimpse of people falling, could have cried out with exaltation. Run, roll, and fire. His chest seemed to burst with burning pride.
Gerd walked over to the body, rolled his victim, face up, with his foot. A freckled adolescent face stared past him, an obscene smile creasing its lips. “Jesus,” he muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
“Gerd.” It was Amy’s voice, soft, shaking. He ran across to where she and Paul had collapsed against each other. She was holding her right side, just below the breast, blood trickling between her fingers. Paul was unconscious, and for a second Gerd feared the worst, but he couldn’t find any bullet wounds. Gerd pulled him forward, found a lump still growing on the back of his head. Something had hit him but good.
“Is he dead?” she whispered.
“No, just unconscious.” He moved on to Kuznetsky, who was lying a few feet away. A bullet had plowed a furrow across the side of his head, just above the left ear. It had probably thrown him back against the camper door, and it was the door, Gerd guessed, that had hit Paul. Some luck, but it could have been worse. None of them was dead — yet.
He got the flashlight from the car and went back to Amy. “He’s out cold too. Let’s look at you.” He gently pulled her hand away and lifted the blouse. It was a nasty flesh wound, but not serious.
“There’s a first-aid box in the front,” she said.
He found it, soaked a cotton ball in disinfectant, and applied it to her wound and then to Kuznetsky’s. Then Gerd wound bandages around his head and her lower chest. Time to go, he told himself, and it looks like I’ll be driving.
She was on her feet, somewhat unsteady; the blood was already seeping through the bandage. “Get in the front,” he said.
“But…”
“Get in the front. I don’t want to carry three bodies.”
She seemed to smile at some private joke, then did as she was told.
He lifted Paul into the back, laying him out alongside the crates. He then pulled Kuznetsky up on the other side, folded the steps up, and closed the doors. “Jesus,” he muttered again. Now for the car. He took off the emergency brake, turned the wheel, and shoved. It stuck against the near rail; he’d have to use the motor. He climbed in, switched on the ignition, and forced the car back over the rails, too far almost — the rear wheels were left spinning in space above the stream. But the road was now clear.
He clambered aboard the camper. Amy didn’t look too bad; her face was pure white, but there was life in her eyes. He pulled away down the valley, trying to remember the route. Left at the end.
“Turn right at the end,” she said.
“No, left.”
“Just do it,” she said with an effort, “I’ll explain as we go.”
He glanced at her, knew she wasn’t rambling, that there was something here he didn’t know about. He swung right onto the main road, waiting for the explanation.
Amy tried to get her thoughts in order, to override the pain in her side. For one terrible moment she’d thought Paul was dead, had wanted to die herself, but he wasn’t, and she couldn’t, and it had to go on. Since climbing into her seat she’d thought more quickly than she could remember, and it seemed foolproof. If only she could be sure she was thinking straight.
“You and Paul weren’t told the truth,” she said.
“Go on.”
“The crates were never meant to go back to the U-boat. Berlin wanted the U-boat, and you and Paul, to be unwitting decoys. You were meant to be caught, and the U-boat sunk. You see, the crates contain only enough material for two atomic bombs at most, which is almost useless to the military. We’d need dozens of bombs to turn the Allies back. So it had to look as though this uranium never reached Germany, that the eventual German bombs were made from German-produced material…”
“But they’d never find the crates.”
“They’ll find one identical empty crate on the beach at Ossabaw Island. Smith left it there when he picked you up.”
“Wonderful,” he said bitterly. “And the U-boat?”
“A telephone call to the local FBI. The U.S. Navy will sink it, and they’ll assume the rest of the crates have gone down with it. Even if it escapes, there’ll be no one looking for us.”
He sighed. “Makes sense, as Paul would say. Just where are we going?”
“South. Mobile, than a boat to Cuba, then a Swedish freighter to Gothenburg.”
“We’re coming into a town,” he said, his mind whirring at what Amy had told him.
“Huntsville. Go left at the… Farley road, I’ll tell you when.”
The streets were empty. As they passed the station Amy could see lights but no sign of activity. The train was now half an hour late; soon someone would be picking up the telephone to find out that the lines east were dead. Then the police would be called, then a search back up the line, then…
“Turn here,” she said. They passed an empty police car parked by a house whose lights still shone in the upstairs windows. Soon they were back in open country, a large lake to the right, a line of low hills to the left, the road pointing straight and south.
“How far to the coast?” he asked.
“About four hundred miles, but we didn’t plan to do it in one go. The idea was — is — to spend the daylight hours in the Talladega Forest, which is about halfway. We should be there by dawn.”
“And by the time we leave for Cuba, the U-boat will have been sighted by your conscientious citizen.”