“Argue,” Michael finished for her, “and that’s not why we’re here. I want to get in closer to the plant and take a look around. Better one scout than two or three. Right?”
Chesna hesitated, but his voice was firm and he was staring holes through her. “All right,” she agreed. “But for God’s sake, stay low!”
“I plan on it.”
Outside, Michael strode briskly along the road and away from the village. Woods and sharp-edged boulders began about seventy yards east of the last house and ascended toward Skarpa’s heights. He knelt down, waiting to make sure Chesna hadn’t followed him, and after a couple of minutes he unstrapped his gun, took off his backpack and his parka. He began to undress, his skin rippling in the chill. Naked, he found a secure niche to wedge his backpack, clothes, and Schmeisser into, and then he sat on his haunches and began the change.
As a wolf, he realized the scent of the food in his pack would draw Skarpa’s wolves like a dinner bell. One way to fix that. He urinated all over the rocks around his cache, and if that smell wouldn’t keep the wolves back, they were welcome to his dried beef. Then he stretched, getting blood into his muscles, and he began to lope nimbly over the rocks above Wolftown.
After he crested the ridge, it was a half-mile jaunt through dense forest before he smelled the reek of men. The thumping noise was louder; he was going in the right direction. Other aromas crowded into his senses: the bitter smell of exhaust from the plant’s chimney, the smell of wet steam, hares, and other small animals quivering in the woods at his passage, and… the musky perfume of a young female.
He heard the soft cracking of a twig off to his left, and when he glanced that way, he caught just the quickest glimpse of yellow. She was keeping pace with him, probably made a little nervous with curiosity and his own male aroma. He wondered if she’d witnessed his change. If so, she’d have interesting tales to tell her pack.
The bitter smell got worse, and so did the man-reek. The yellow she-wolf began to lay behind, intimidated by the nearness of humans. After a moment she stopped, and Michael heard her make a high-pitched yip yip yip. He understood the message: Don’t go any closer. He wouldn’t have cared to if he’d had a choice about it, but he kept going. About fifteen yards later he came out of the woods and there was Hildebrand’s creation, rising like a dirty mountain beyond a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.
Smoke chugged from a massive chimney of gray stones. Around it were concrete buildings, connected by catwalks and pipes that snaked through the place like one of Harry Sandler’s mazes. The thumping heartbeat noise was coming from somewhere at the center of the complex, and lights shone through the shutters of windows. Alleys wound between the buildings; as Michael watched, on his belly at the edge of the woods, a truck turned a corner and grumbled away like a fat beetle into another alley. He saw several figures up on the catwalks. Two workmen twisted a large red flywheel, and then a third checked what looked like a panel of pressure gauges and signaled an okay sign. Work was going on here around the clock.
Michael got up and slinked along the fence. Soon he made another discovery: an airfield, complete with hangars, a fuel tank, and fueling trucks. On the field, lined up in an orderly row, were three night fighters-a Dornier Do-217 and two Heinkel HE-219’s, all with nose radar prongs-and a wicked-looking Messerschmitt Bf-109 day fighter. Overshadowing everything on the field was a huge Messerschmitt Me-323 transport aircraft, its wingspan over a hundred and eighty feet and its length almost a hundred feet. The Nazis were obviously doing some serious business here. For now, though, there was no activity on the airfield. Beyond the field the cliffs of Skarpa fell to the sea.
Michael returned to the forest’s edge and chose his spot. He began to dig a hole beneath the fence; for this task, a wolf’s paws were superior to human hands. Still, the ground was full of small rocks and it was strenuous work. But the hole grew, and when it was large enough, Michael pressed his belly to the earth and clawed himself under the fence. He stood up, on all fours, and glanced around. No soldiers in sight. He ran into the nearest alley, heading toward the heartbeat with a shadow’s silence.
He smelled and heard the truck coming before it turned into the alley behind him, and he leaped around a corner and flung himself flat before the headlights found him. The truck passed; in its backwash, Michael caught a sour odor of sweat and fear: a zoolike smell he associated instantly with Falkenhausen. He got up and followed the truck at a respectful distance.
The truck paused before a long building with shuttered windows. A corrugated metal gate was drawn up from within, and harsh light spilled out. The truck pulled into the portal, and a few seconds later the corrugated metal began to clatter down again. It fell, sealing off the light.
Michael’s gaze found a ladder, running up the building’s side to a catwalk about twenty feet above. The catwalk continued along the center of the roof. There was no time for deliberation. He found a group of oilcans nearby and crouched behind them. When the change was done and his white skin tingled with the cold, he stood up, ran to the metal-runged ladder, and quickly scaled it, something that a man’s hands and feet could do but a wolf’s paws could not. The catwalk went on to the next structure, but on this building’s roof there was an entry door. Michael tried it, and the knob turned. He opened the door, found himself in a stairwell, and started down.
He emerged into a workshop of some kind, with a conveyor belt and hoists just below the roof. There were stacks of crates and oil drums, and a couple of heavy load-pulling machines standing about. Michael could hear voices; all the activity was down at the other end of the long building. He carefully wound his way through the equipment, and instantly crouched down behind a rack full of copper tubing when he heard an irritated voice say, “This man can’t work! My God, look at those hands! Palsied like an old woman! I said bring me men who can use saws and hammers!”
Michael knew that voice. He looked out from his hiding place, and saw Colonel Jerek Blok.
The hulking Boots stood beside his master. Blok was shouting into the face of a German officer who had flushed crimson, and to their left stood a skinny man in the baggy gray uniform of a POW. The prisoner’s hands were not only palsied, they were gnarled by malnutrition. Beyond those four men stood seven other prisoners, five men and two women. On a large table were bottles of nails, an assortment of hammers and saws, and nearby a pile of timbers. The truck, flanked by two soldiers with rifles, was positioned near the metal gate.
“Oh, take this wretch back to his hole!” Blok gave the prisoner a disdainful shove. “We’ll have to use what we’ve got!” As the officer pushed the POW back to the truck, Blok put his hands on his hips and addressed the others. “I trust you are all well and eager to work. Yes?” He smiled, and his silver teeth threw a spark of light. There was no response from the prisoners, their faces pale and emotionless. “You gentlemen-and ladies-have been selected from the others because your records indicate a familiarity with carpentry. We are therefore going to do some woodcraft this morning. Twenty-four crates, built to the specifications as follows.” He withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Thirty-two inches in length, sixteen inches in height, sixteen inches in width. There will be no deviations from this formula. These crates will be lined with rubber. The points of all nails will be blunted once they are hammered in. All rough edges will be sanded to a uniform smoothness. The lids will be double-hinged and padlocked instead of nailed shut.” He gave the list to Boots, who went about nailing it up on a bulletin board for all to see. “Moreover,” Blok continued, “these crates will be inspected at the end of sixteen hours. Any not passing my inspection will be broken and its creator made to begin anew. Questions?” He waited. Of course there were none. “Thank you for your attention,” he said, and strode toward the metal gate with Boots right behind him.