The last enemy, p.22
The Last Enemy, page 22
“Sarge, those Russians have run, and the war is about to end. But we’re not done.”
“Not done?”
“I wish. We have one thing left.”
“Richter.”
“Yeah, Richter. We last spotted him heading northwest, and we don’t need to guess what he’s planning.” He looked at Neuberg. “The sixty-four-dollar question is whether it’ll work.”
He nodded gravely. “It will work.” He paused, thinking, “Provided they completed the assembly as I detailed in my notebook. The detonation depends on splitting atoms in the uranium-235 to produce nuclear fission that generates such a vast explosion. They were short of uranium, but if they managed to source a supply, yes, we must assume it will work.”
They had to find him and stop him. They’d seen the direction he’d taken, and he gave the order to move out. He staggered, and he started to walk after the pain came back with a vengeance.
Too bad, plenty of time to suffer when this war is over.
“Let’s go get the motherfucker.”
He barely made the half-mile when his legs gave way. He tried to stagger to his feet and regain his balance, but his brain refused to cooperate. Clemence immediately rushed to him. A second later, Kelly arrived with Anderson.
She peered down at him anxiously. “Jack, you’re sweating, and your face is lined with pain. Do you need more morphine?”
“No! We have to keep going, have to catch him, or it’s all over.”
“Stay here and rest. The other men can go after him.”
“Negative. I undertook this mission, and I aim to see it through, period. I just need to keep going a bit longer.”
“You can’t.”
“I can. Help me up.” She grimaced, put her arms around his shoulders to support him, and he staggered up. A moment later, he fell again. Just the effort of getting up had drained his last reserves of strength, “Try it again.”
“No! You’re dead on your feet.”
He speared her with a hard gaze. “No matter what it takes, I’m going on. Even if it kills me.”
“It probably will.”
“A man can’t live forever.” He struggled to get up again, and this time he managed to stand. She gave him a dubious look, opened her pack, and pulled out the first-aid kit. She pulled out a small, blue, and red packet. Ripped it open and inside was a round, aluminum container with German markings. He didn’t need to translate. He knew what was inside. He’d used it before, a powerful drug that gave a man an enormous boost of energy, enough to keep him fighting, despite the most horrific wounds and exhaustion beyond human endurance.
They’d discovered the packets in captured German medical supplies. Pervitin, crystal meth. One of the most addictive drugs on the planet, and one of the most dangerous. They said it was powerful enough to resurrect a corpse. So dangerous even the Nazis had curtailed its supply to their troops after their disastrous experiences on the Eastern Front when men would continue fighting night and day until their hearts stopped, or their bodies shut down and they fell dead in the snow.
But he was desperate. “Go ahead.”
She handed them over, and he swallowed five tablets with water from his canteen. An enormous dose, and he knew he wouldn’t get any sleep for several days, yet immediately he felt his body respond as the lingering effects of the morphine fled from his brain. He was ready to complete the mission. To hunt him down and stop him.
Chapter Twelve
Richter gloated. He’d managed to get the vehicle out of the mud and was once more moving northwest. When he detonated the device, a vast explosion hitherto unknown would obliterate everything over a radius of several miles, including himself. Using the timer would allow him to get clear, theoretically giving him enough time to escape the blast area, but he didn’t plan to escape.
Russian soldiers were pursuing him relentlessly, determined to get hold of the knowledge he carried in his head. They’d stop at nothing until they got their hands on him and shipped him in chains to Moscow. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He planned to set the timer for five minutes, no more. Enough time for him to make his peace with his higher power.
The blast would vaporize him, but it would be instant, so he’d know nothing about it. He’d die knowing he’d struck a mighty blow for the Fatherland. The last act of a loyal soldier, and his only regret was that the Führer would never know the name of the man responsible. He speculated what the afterlife would be like. Would it be populated by fellow Nazis, men who knew what he’d achieved?
He brought his mind back to the present. He was approaching a narrow bridge constructed of steel girders alongside the wreckage of a stone bridge that’d been destroyed. The hastily constructed framework didn’t look like it would support much weight, but he’d have to chance it. The eight-ton Hanomag was a heavy vehicle, but the device on the back added six tons to the overall weight, making it almost as heavy as a light tank.
If he took it slowly, he reckoned he’d make it, so he slowed to a crawl and drove past the bridge supports and onto the bridge. It creaked alarmingly as it took the heavy weight. He continued at a crawl, so he was barely moving. Heading toward the center when the creaking noise became a tortured groan, and the entire structure sagged downward until the center rested in the water.
He still reckoned he could make it. The tracks could propel this vehicle up impossible inclines, and he continued driving until the two wheels at the front were partially submerged. The tracks were unable to apply sufficient torque to push the wheels out of the water over to the other side. He quickly glanced around in case there was any sign of the enemy, but nobody was in sight. He’d work this out. There had to be a way.
He climbed down and examined the problem. The front wheels had wedged against a bent section of the steel deck, a girder that’d torn loose. It was still bolted in place, but most of the bolts had sheared away, so it was held in place by a single nut and bolt. Remove that bolt, and he could slide the girder into the river, and the wheels would be free to move forward.
He climbed back onto the vehicle and opened the toolbox behind the front seats. Picked out several big wrenches, intended to carry out running repairs on the tracks, and climbed back down. He found a wrench that fitted perfectly, but the bolt wouldn’t move, no matter how hard he worked at it. He climbed back onto the vehicle, and from the toolbox selected a bulky sledgehammer. Climbed back down, positioned the wrench on the bolt, and swung the sledge to use its force against the stubborn bolt. It slipped off, so he tried again, holding it in place with his boot.
This time it didn’t slip, but the bolt steadfastly refused to move. Once again, he swung the sledge, and once again, nothing happened. He kept trying, weeping tears of frustration, when suddenly he felt movement. The bolt had shifted a tiny fraction, and that meant it had loosened. He kept beating at it with the sledge, and the bolt completed a full rotation when the bridge lurched, sagged even more, and he had to grab at the framework to steady himself.
It wouldn’t last much longer, and he continued desperately hammering at the bolt, turning it a tiny bit at a time. It was coming loose, but the process was slow, and he knew he was in a race to remove the bolt and drive off the bridge before it collapsed.
* * *
Murphy led them on with a vengeance at such a fast pace his platoon struggled to keep up. Soon, the walking wounded fell behind, but he made sure to keep them in sight, in case they ran into trouble. Rooker remonstrated with him, trying to get him to slow down.
“You’re killing yourself, Lt. You need to ease up. They all need to ease up.”
“He’s right,” Clemence added, “Especially you. If you keep up this pace, your heart will explode, and you’ll die.”
“We have to get to him before he has a chance to use that device, and before the Russians get to him.”
“They ran, we saw them take off,” Rooker protested.
“Maybe. We saw them disappear into a wood. We don’t know where they went.”
“With any luck the mothers are heading back to Moscow, and we’ll never see them again,” Kelly grunted.
He glared at him. “Since when have we had any luck on this mission? We’ve been out of luck from the start, so let’s assume nothing changes.”
Lawson tapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t forget, they want him alive.”
“Yeah, sure,” he lied. Until now he’d clean forgotten the order about taking him alive, but Lawson’s reminder made little difference to his chemically accelerated brain that was telling him the opposite. He wanted to finish the sonofabitch. Rid the world of the Nazi piece of shit. He’d decide when the time came.
Although they were slowed by the soft going, the ground turned into mud in many places by the incessant rain, he pushed the pace hard. Knew what it was doing to him, but he didn’t have a choice. Pounded up a low hill, scrambled onto a flat area at the top about two hundred yards wide, and at the other end, the ground fell away, giving them a view of what lay ahead.
He paused, unable to believe what he was seeing in front of them. A river about a half-mile away and the remains of a stone bridge, a victim to the bombing. A temporary bridge constructed of steel girders crossed the river adjacent to it. It’d almost collapsed under the weight of a vehicle that’d attempted to cross, and in disbelief, he put his binoculars to his eyes to confirm what he was seeing. The half-track with the heavy steel cylinder loaded on the bed. The vehicle had stopped in the center, and a man was swinging a sledgehammer, obviously trying to repair something that’d brought the vehicle to a halt.
They had him. He swung around and looked for Lucas. “The rifle, gimme the Springfield.”
He handed it over, and he looked through the scope. No question, there was no mistaking the distinctive SS uniform. At that distance, he could pick him off with a single shot, and he was tempted, but Lawson tapped him on the shoulder.
“Don’t even think about it, Lieutenant. You know the order. We take him alive.”
“While we screw around, he could get away. Or do something stupid, like detonate that device.”
“Alive.”
He nodded. “We’d better get down there before he gets away.”
He slung the Springfield over his shoulder, and the added weight didn’t cause him any problems. The Pervitin gave him the strength of three men, and right then, he needed that strength to finish this. He strode away, and the men followed. Reached the foot of the hill, walked toward the roadway that led to the bridge, and he broke into a jog, ignoring the moans.
“We have to get there before he fixes whatever he’s doing. He could move off at any moment.”
“Lt…”
He looked at Rooker. “What is it, Sarge?”
“There’s another guy heading toward him, following the bank of the river. Could be the Russian, and he’s closer than we are.”
He called a halt and peered through the scope on his Springfield.
“The rest of you keep moving toward the bridge. I have to put a bullet in him to stop him getting there before us.”
“What could he do?” Rooker objected, “He couldn’t get far, not without a vehicle, and it don’t look like that half-track is going anyplace soon.”
Lawson gave him a look. “Unless the German gets it moving in the meantime. Or the Russian gets it moving. There’s another possibility, Sergeant. If he thinks the Russians are likely to get our hands on him, he could detonate that bomb. We need to get there first and stop him. Lieutenant, can you stop the Russian?”
“I can stop him.”
“What about Richter? When he hears the shot, he’ll know we’re close.”
“I’ll deal with him.”
The men jogged away. Clemence stayed with him, and he looked for a shooting stance. There was nowhere suitable, just the muddy ground, no chunks of rock to rest the barrel on, no fallen trees, no low walls.
He was still looking when she called him over. “Jack, use me.” She knelt, and he knelt behind her.
“You need to stay still, breathe easy.”
“I hear you.”
He rested the barrel on her shoulder, and she was steady. He put his eye to the scope, but it still wasn’t stable enough. Her shoulder moved up and down a tiny fraction each time she breathed. He told to hold her breath, and her shoulder steadied. He was ready to take the shot, lined up the crosshairs, about to squeeze the trigger when the man disappeared, sliding down the riverbank so he couldn’t see him.
He guessed he’d spotted the platoon and had dropped out of sight. He’d be running toward the bridge, determined to get there before the Americans. Okay, so he couldn’t see him, but he knew where he was headed. He’d have a chance to put a bullet in him when he climbed onto the bridge to confront Richter. He’d have to move to a different position to have a clear view, and they ran two hundred yards to the flank and halted.
Once again, she knelt, and he knelt behind her. Put the barrel on her shoulder, and this time she knew what to do. Sucked in a huge breath and held it. Grechkov appeared, climbing onto the steel framework. He put the crosshairs on him, but he moved fast, threading himself between the maze of girders shielding him from Murphy’s bullet.
He had to wait even though it was a risk. He saw the Russian reach Richter, who spotted him and ran to the device on the bed of the vehicle. He said something he couldn’t make out, and then the Russian grabbed him. Grechkov was aware of Rooker’s men approaching, and he swung the German in front of him to use as a human shield. He screwed the muzzle of his automatic into his head and shouted, “Stop! Come any closer, and I kill him!”
They stopped. Murphy didn’t have a clear shot, and he felt an overwhelming tide of hopelessness engulf him. After everything they’d been through, they’d been pipped at the post by this Commie bastard. Whatever happened next wouldn’t be good. Either he’d kill him, or he’d get him away. He couldn’t guarantee to put a bullet into Grechkov, but Richter was another matter. His body was in full view, and he could put a bullet into him without any problem. Except the order was not to kill him.
He looked back through the scope, ignoring the tiny movement as Clemence had to suck in air. He focused on Richter, moved the barrel a fraction, and yes, he could see the Russian. Not all of him, but just the tiniest bit. He decided it was his hip that showed behind the German. If he put a bullet in that hip, would it be enough to make him spin away, so he’d have a clear shot to finish him?
He didn’t have any other choices, so he’d go for it. Kept the barrel resting on her shoulder and told her to suck in a breath again and hold it. Focused on that tiny target, no more than a square inch of the Russian’s body. Ordered his racing, over-stimulated brain to calm, steadied his breathing, and mentally drew the connection between him and the target. Gently, he caressed the trigger. The bullet slammed into the target, and just like he’d hoped, he spun away. Exposing most of his upper body, and he didn’t hesitate.
Worked the bolt, slid in another round, and fired. Loaded and fired again, and both bullets slammed into his body, one in the belly, and the other in the chest. Grechkov still hadn’t gone down, and despite his wounds he searched for the shooter. He steadied himself against a bridge support, and through the scope, Murphy could see blood spurting from his wounds. Pouring out in torrents. He swayed, dropped his machine pistol, too weakened by shock and loss of blood. Slowly, he toppled like a giant redwood. He fell into the river, and his body floated downstream.
He looked at the girl. “That’s it. Let’s go!”
They raced across the ground, heading toward the bridge. Rooker’s men were also running, but they halted and dived to the ground when Richter picked up the fallen submachine gun and opened fire, spraying them with bullets. His aim was uneven, but he was squirting so much lead that if they didn’t duck down, more men would be hit.
It was just him and the girl. They ran like crazy, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest like a steam hammer. He had to take the shot, and he shouted at her to stop and kneel. She tried to remain still, but the barrel was rising and falling in time with her furious heartbeat. She had little choice but to let out her breath, but she quickly sucked in more air.
“I’m ready but make it quick.”
He heard a man shouting. It sounded like Lawson. Shouting at him, repeating the order not to kill him, but suddenly everything changed. The German dragged aside a heavy steel girder that’d blocked the front wheels, climbed into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. He was getting away, starting to drive off the bridge.
No fucking way.
He lined up the crosshairs on his body, trying to judge the effect of the barrel rising and falling. Clemence let out another breath, sucked in more air, and held still. He followed the movement of the target like he’d follow a running deer back home in the mountains of Montana.
This time it wasn’t the quarry that was moving, it was the rifle, but the theory was the same. He hoped. Just as the barrel was rising, a split second before the crosshairs lined up on the target, he squeezed the trigger. In that moment of firing, he felt a release, as every bit of loathing he had for the Nazis surfaced. He despised everything they’d done, the people who’d suffered, the soldiers and civilians who’d died, some horribly, as a result of the evil that Adolf Hitler had unleashed across Europe.
Once again, he willed the bullet toward the target, and once again, it struck. He’d aimed at the center of his head, and there was no mistake. The 30.06 round tore into his skull, a splatter of blood and brains spilled out, and he slumped forward, his already dead hands still gripping the wheel. The half-track smashed through the side barrier of the bridge and drove into the water. He watched the chassis slowly disappear beneath the surface, tilted on its side. But the water was shallow, and the bodywork remained visible with the monstrous device poking out above the surface, leaning against the part-submerged bridge. The remains of SS-Obergruppenführer Dr. Karl-Heinz Richter were also visible. Deceased.
