Order of Battle (34 page)

He looked up at Erik—and froze. Despite his instant effort to conceal his sudden concern, his face twitched in silent alarm. For a moment he stood immobile, staring at the American and the papers in his hand, the uniform buttons forgotten.

Erik glanced at him, and Krueger at once averted his eyes and continued to button his tunic.

Erik just caught the last flicker of Krueger’s look of alarm. It was enough. At once he felt the surge of alertness whip through him. Something just happened. Something he missed!

He contemplated the German thoughtfully. Did the man seem more tense? Or, rather, more deliberately relaxed?

He tried to catch Krueger’s eyes, but the general avoided his. Did he make a point of doing so?

Erik was puzzled. Uneasy. Something was going on. Something he’d better figure out. And fast! His mind raced. He stared at the German. Standing erect, Krueger looked straight at Erik.

“I am ready,” he said calmly.

Erik stood up. He returned Krueger’s direct gaze. He suddenly felt himself in a duel, a duel of emotional control, of unspoken action and reaction, and he realized with dismay that he didn’t even know the stakes! He only knew it was a duel he had to win.

He was abruptly aware that he was crumpling the papers in his hand. He glanced at them—and barely managed not to betray the thought that lanced into his mind.

He flexed his shoulders in a gesture of relaxation.

“Okay, let’s go.”

He threw the papers on the table with a show of indifference.

As he did, he shot a glance at the Werewolf general.

And he caught it!

Krueger’s eyes flicked momentarily toward the papers on the table, then returned at once to stare blandly at Erik. It was barely perceptible, but the man’s face had lost some of its tenseness. Krueger looked relieved.

It
was
the documents that concerned him!

Erik whirled back to the table. He grabbed the papers and held them out to Krueger.

“What’s in these documents, General?” he demanded, his voice suddenly hard as flint

He watched for Krueger’s reaction. He almost missed it. A slight widening of the eyes; an almost undiscernible drain of color; the sardonic smile gone. But the Germans voice was steady, unhurried when he spoke.

‘Take them along. Read them.” He shrugged with unconcern. “They are reports. Daily reports . . . Routine.”

He dismissed the subject and started toward the door.

“Hold it!” Erik snapped. “Stay right where you are!”

Krueger froze. Erik began to study the papers in his hand.

“I’m suddenly curious to see what kind of
routine
a Werewolf follows. I think I’d better find out. And not later . . . Now!”

He began to examine the documents, one by one. He read fast. But he let nothing slip by. He was certain he’d find something.

Krueger glared at him. Beneath his bushy brows, his cold eyes glittered with icy fire. The muscles in his lean jaw corded as he unconsciously bit down hard. All of a sudden his taut body seemed charged with barely bridled violence. His eyes darted from Erik to Evans standing at the wall map. The MP officer was watching him warily. He quickly glanced toward Warnecke. The man stood in the open doorway. His gun was in his hand, ready to use.

Suddenly Krueger’s eyes widened. At once he shifted his gaze back to Erik. With a show of bored irritation he turned, took a couple of steps toward the bunk and leaned against a corner post. Warnecke followed his move closely, his attention wholly focused on the Werewolf general.

He was completely unaware of the soundless, furtive movement in back of him. . . .

On the far wall of the entrance chamber behind him, a small section of the shoring planks, its outline undetectable among the natural cracks and joints of the rough boards, was slowly, silently being pushed out and cautiously placed on the floor below.

Moving with molasses motion, a man, crouched in the exposed opening, noiselessly lowered himself into the room. From his belt he drew the black steel of a .08 Luger and took careful aim at War-necke’s back. . . .

The seconds seemed eternal. Krueger could contain himself no longer. He permitted his eyes to flick toward the dim entry chamber behind Warnecke. He froze. His mind raced wildly.

Damn the man! He’ll kill any possible chance we have of using the escape tunnel if he fires that gun! he thought in desperation. I
must
stop him!

He forced himself to look at Erik. He forced himself to make his voice sound casual.

“Your friends up there,” he said quickly, glancing up at the ceiling. “Will they not get impatient if you stay down here reading all those reports? They are, as I told you, of no consequence.”

Erik did not answer. He had a sinking feeling as he read on. The papers were routine. Duty rosters. Schedules. Regulations. They
were
of no consequence. But dammit,
he’d
decide when to stop reading, not some goddamned German! With angry annoyance he put the paper he’d been reading aside and doggedly started on the next one.

And suddenly his every nerve end chilled. Here it was! What he’d been so certain would be there! His eyes devoured the words on the document in his hand. . . .

The Werewolf crouched behind the unsuspecting Warnecke instantly understood the general’s warning. Quickly he put the gun away. He reached up to the visor of his Wehrmacht field cap. He yanked sharply at the rim. It gave way, and from the visor he pulled a four-inch-long curved knife blade. It was razor sharp. . . .

Erik looked up in excitement from the document in his hand.

In that instant the Werewolf made his move. He leaped upon Warnecke from the back, and with one swift slicing motion he cut his throat.

Warnecke’s death cry died aborning in a hideous gargling groan, the convulsive expulsion of air spewing bright red droplets of blood from the gaping wound as he collapsed.

The instant Warnecke went down Evans whirled on the assailant, gun in hand. But the Werewolf had anticipated just that. With a well-aimed kick he sent the gun spinning on the floor. . . .

In the same instant that the man had leaped to attack Warnecke, Krueger hurled himself upon Erik, taking him completely by surprise. With the incredible strength of desperation he held him in a viselike, painful judo grip, preventing him from drawing his gun and coming to the aid of Evans, who, weaponless, confronted the Werewolf assassin inexorably advancing on him.

Erik struggled desperately in Krueger’s grip. He felt the bone in his arm beginning to snap.

“
Erledigen! Schnell!
Finish him!” Krueger spat out the words.

Evans backed against the table. He shot a quick glance behind him, searching for a weapon.

And he found it.

He grabbed a pencil lying half hidden among the papers and, grasping it like a knife pointed away from him, made a vicious stab toward the stomach of the advancing Werewolf. The man instantly drew up. He pulled his stomach back. In so doing he leaned slightly forward. . . .

Evans’ stab had been a feint. Without a break in his fluid, powerful motion, he jabbed the sharply pointed pencil deep into the man’s exposed jugular vein.

For a split second an incredulous look of surprise and mortification winked in the man’s glazing eyes; he
knew
in that instant that he had been tricked, but he had been powerless to repress his own reflex action.

The force behind Evans’ jab was so great that the pencil snapped off in the flesh of the Werewolf. Already-dead fingers plucked at the blood stained stub and the man tried to shriek his agony as his life spurted from him.

Before he hit the floor Evans had retrieved his gun. He whirled on Krueger.

“Enough!” he called sharply. His eyes flicked briefly toward the body of Warnecke. “I’d love to have to use this, you bastard!”

Krueger at once released Erik.

Erik stared at the dead Werewolf. He was deeply shaken. He could feel the bitter bile rise in his throat. He fought it down. It left his gullet burning and raw. He turned to Evans.

Thanks!” he said. “And thank God you knew that good old OSS standby!”

Evans glanced sourly at the broken pencil on the floor.

“The pencil?” He shrugged. “We do have
some
basic training in the MPs,” he said sarcastically.

Erik took a deep breath.

“Well, thanks anyway.”

Evans gave him a cold look.

“No thanks necessary—uh—Larsen. I was protecting my own skin.”

Erik knelt by Warnecke. But he knew he was dead. He gathered the documents from the table. Then he looked at Krueger.

The Werewolf general stood stiffly erect. The faint, wry smile was back on his lips and in his eyes. He returned Erik’s angry stare calmly.

Erik nodded at the doorway.

“Get going!”

Krueger made a slight bow. The perfect Prussian Junker officer. He walked toward the ladder.

Erik’s bleak eyes followed him.

A game, he thought bitterly. He acts just as if it were a goddamned game. He made his move and lost. No one can blame him for that, can they? No, sir. He’ll try again, of course. Isn’t that what it’s all about? One great, glorious game played out by gentlemen officers? Shit!

He kept his eyes averted from the two dead men on the floor as he followed Krueger and Evans to the ladder.

Topside Don came up to him.

“We’ve got forty-eight enlisted men and seven officers,” he announced happily. “I think it’s the lot.”

He gestured expansively around the clearing. A large group of Werewolves, some in uniform, some not, stood facing an officer. The man was calling off the names from a roster in his hand. Grimly the Germans were responding. Don turned to Erik. He looked closely at his friend. He suddenly grew sober.

“Hey, what happened down there?”

“Never mind that now,” Erik countered urgently. He was watching Evans reenter the command dugout with a couple of men. Tearing his attention away, he showed one of the documents from Krueger’s table to Don.

Take a look at this.”

“What is it?”

Don took the paper.

“The Werewolves have a mission. Unit C. A big one. Laid on for tonight!”

“What’s the target?

Erik looked at him, his eyes grave.

“The jackpot, Don. The priority mission.”

“Ike!”

Don stared at the document in his hand.

“How?”

His eyes flew over the words on the paper.

“Save it. There are no details.” Erik went on rapidly. “The task force will be mounted from Unit C. The location of the unit is given. About seventy-five miles from here, still in Corps area. In the woods east of Grafenheim. But not
where
in the goddamned woods! They mention a rendezvous, but not where it’s to be. Transportation. They refer to a previous order, but it’s not here either.” He looked solemnly at Don.

“Don. They sound so damned positive they can pull it off!”

“We’ve got to get this back to Corps! But right now!”

“Let Evans do it.”

“Evans?”

“He and his MPs. They can take Krueger and the other prisoners back, too.” He went on with quiet urgency. “We don’t have the time, Don. We don’t have the time to persuade the brass that we need another two companies. We don’t have the time to set up an operation through Corps. And we can’t even warn anyone. We don’t know against what! No; you and I are going with Lieutenant James and his platoon. To Grafenheim. It says here that’s their jump-off point.”

Grimly Don surveyed the area before them.

“We thought this was it,” he said. “We thought we’d put the lid on this damned case.”

He looked soberly at Erik.

“It’s just been blown wide open!”

Grafenheim

Werewolf Unit C

1519 hrs

Never in his life had Willi been so keyed up.

It was wild!

It would work!

And
he
would be part of it. He, Untersturmführer Wilhelm Richter, would have a hand in changing history!

The briefing, just finished, had been perfect. Absolutely perfect. Clear, concise, straight to the point. He was vastly impressed with the leadership of the mission. And the men. Krueger had known exactly what he was doing when he selected the special para-commandos from Unit C for the mission. It wasn’t only because it was the unit nearest the jump-off point. It was the men. A couple of them were even veterans from Colonel Skorzeny’s fantastic rescue of Mussolini from that Alpine mountaintop. The best!

With a glow of pride and confidence he remembered how he and all his comrades had felt the day they learned about Skorzeny’s fabulous exploit. . . .

It had been impossible. They’d told Skorzeny it couldn’t be done. But he’d done it anyway, despite their predictions of disaster. He’d crash-landed gliders on a postage-stamp shelf sloping from the top of Gran Sasso mountain, snatched the Duce from the Italian garrison with a handful of men, and escaped with him by literally pushing a small plane, a Storch it was, off the cliff into a ravine, diving until the plane became airborne!

It had been a gallant, an inspiring feat. He remembered the elation, the tremendous lift he’d felt; he, every soldier—all of Germany! It had put new heart into the whole war effort.

It had been big. Real big.

This time it would be bigger. . . .

Everything was going like clockwork. The CO of Unit C had not been in contact with the Führer’s representative, that pompous little ass from Berlin, Reichsamtsleiter von Eckdorf, for the last couple of days. No last-minute orders or changes had been received from Krueger via the Munich radio relay station.

The mission was on.

The mission that would change the course of the war. The mission that would rally the defenders of the
Alpenfestung,
the invincible Alpine Fortress: the Werewolves, the Hitler Youth, the SS troops—all of them!

He savored the brilliant operational plans as he would a great wine, letting it wash over his awareness. . . .