The last enemy, p.17
The Last Enemy, page 17
His eyes half closed in thought, and finally he nodded. “It’s possible. I was making my calculations based on the logistics of moving in heavy equipment, as well as the components for the bomb, which would weigh around several tons. But of course, they could have constructed a hidden route through the Harz, in which case the laboratory would likely be further north.”
“Like not far from here?”
He nodded slowly. “It’s possible.”
Murphy glanced at Witherspoon. “I think it’s more than possible. Lieutenant Witherspoon, you hear that? It could be a lot closer, so start looking. It’ll be well camouflaged, so you’ll have to beat the bushes to look for it.”
They talked further with Neuberg and made a firm estimate of its most likely location based on the logistical problems of moving heavy equipment.
Witherspoon assigned Corporal Crockett to remain with the men guarding the wounded. “If trouble finds you, you’ll need the machine gun.”
Clemence said she’d help care for the wounded. Four men to guard them wasn’t many, but if any Germans happened along, some of the wounded were able to use their rifles. Anderson handed over the last of his medical supplies and joined the rear of Witherspoon’s column as they walked away. Heading south to look behind every tree and every rock until they found that tunnel entrance.
* * *
From a concealed position inside a clump of trees on top of the hill, Grechkov watched most of the American soldiers depart. Since the underground explosion had blocked the underground labyrinth, he’d ordered his men to search for an alternative way in. When the American troops left. He guessed they had an idea of the location of an alternative entrance. They’d left behind the wounded.
His men were relaxing on the ground, and he regarded them with pride. They were tough, hard-bitten combat veterans. He’d placed Sergeant Danilov in command, despite the objections of the new arrival Senior Sergeant Ivan Polikov. He’d worked with Danilov since the start, and together they’d fought numerous battles. The man was brutal enough to see any task through, no matter what he was up against.
He considered their situation. He called his men together and outlined what he had in mind. The men split into two groups, one to head eight hundred yards north, the other eight hundred yards south. They’d close on the Americans from both sides. If they had any sense, they’d realize they were badly outnumbered and put down their weapons. If they didn’t have any sense… no problem, they’d shoot them.
* * *
Murphy forced himself to his feet, shutting off his mind to the pain. He’d hated the idea of handing over command to Witherspoon, but he knew he didn’t have any choice. If it came to a fight, he’d slow them down. He idly checked his weapons. Lucas had left him the Springfield, and he wiped over the metalwork with a clean rag he kept for the purpose. Polished the lenses of the scope with a soft cloth and ratcheted a round into the breech. Used the bolt to eject it and placed it on a shelter half to keep it out of the dirt. Next, he checked out his Colt M1911. He ejected the magazine, removed the bullets and replaced them one by one. A daily routine he’d got into, so he knew when he squeezed the trigger, a bullet came out from the business end.
Last, the MP-40. Same procedure, wiped over the metalwork, ejected the magazine, checked it, cocked the action to load a round into the chamber, and ejected it. Patted his pockets to confirm he still had spare magazines. He had three left he’d taken from the body of the dead soldier. As well as four clips for the Springfield and two spare mags for the Colt. Plenty of ammunition, although when a man got into a serious firefight, he could burn through a large quantity of bullets in no time. All he’d have left was his combat knife, the Fairbairn-Sykes strapped to his webbing. A last resort. He’d used it on occasion, although it wasn’t always possible to get close enough to use it during a fight. If an enemy was fifty yards away, the knife was useless. All he could do was hope to Christ it didn’t come to that.
He left the Springfield resting against a rock and got to his feet. He needed to get moving to get the blood flowing through his muscles and through his brain, still woozy after all the morphine they’d given him. When he started to walk away, Clemence gave him a sharp look.
“You need rest, Jack.”
“I’ll rest when I’m dead. I’m strolling around to get my muscles moving, stop them stiffening up.”
He reached the edge of the road and headed toward the foot of the hill. After the first few yards it became more of a cliff than a slope. He stopped short. Glanced up at the sheer slope and it was the kind of challenge he’d enjoyed tackling back home in Montana. Free-climbing the rock face, pitting his strength and skills against the worst that nature could throw at a man.
He was tempted, very tempted. In the past he’d have shinned up like a monkey, but right now he knew he wasn’t up to it. He’d likely make the first fifty feet, miss his footing, and tumble back down to break his bones on the rocks below. Likely break his head too. If he fell from that height, the steel helmet wouldn’t save him.
In his anger at feeling so weak and useless, he kicked out at a small rock and sent it skidding away. He heard it bounce as it hit something, and then nothing, as if it had fallen into a hole. He walked toward the spot and glanced around. The rock had fallen into a narrow fissure at the bottom of the slope and disappeared. He was curious and pulled several rocks away. He was staring into a black hole, a tiny tunnel that disappeared into the hillside. He pulled away more rocks, and underfoot, he couldn’t believe his eyes. As he cleared more debris, a pair of narrow-gauge steel tracks appeared.
He could hardly believe it. What they’d been searching for was here all the time. But where did the tracks go after they emerged from the tunnel mouth, that was absurd. He walked back toward the road, kicking away more loose shale, and more steel tracks appeared. He followed them to the road, two parallel lines. Camouflaged beneath a layer of dirt and fine gravel that looked little different to much of the hastily repaired, rubble-strewn surface.
He returned to the entrance and pulled away more rocks until he’d exposed a gap wide enough for him to climb inside. He dropped inside to check it out. It had obviously seen activity lately. No question, he’d found what he was looking for. He went several yards further in, using his flashlight to find his way through, and suddenly the pain caught up with him, rushing back with a vengeance like a tsunami.
The morphine was fighting it, but not enough, the pain was there. Clemence was right. He was in no state to wander off, but she was also wrong. He’d found what they were looking for, and any amount of pain and confusion was worth it. He put out a hand to the tunnel wall to support himself as he felt his legs buckle, took a few moments to recover, and turned around to go back. For the first few steps the dizziness almost caused him to fall. He wasn’t about to give in to it. He shook his head violently and banged it with his fist to try and clear it. It hurt. But he still felt dizzy.
He exited the tunnel and was about to rejoin his people when he realized something was wrong. Badly wrong. The wounded were still there, being tended by Clemence, and the men guarding them were there.
But in the distance were a bunch of soldiers. They’d split up, likely following Witherspoon. They wore Red Army uniforms, and most carried PPSh submachine guns.
He frantically considered his options and came up with a number. Zero. There was nothing he could do. When he stepped out into the open, they’d see him, and it wouldn’t take them long to look around and work out where he’d been and what he’d found. The Russians had won.
Chapter Nine
He watched, trying to make sense of what he was seeing from behind a pile of rocks. Until several soldiers spread out to look around. They’d find him, and there was no place to hide. Except the tunnel. There was no time to cover up the entrance, they’d be here in minutes. He followed the rails, determined to keep ahead of them. He staggered further, no less determined to find what was at the end. Was it the facility the Germans had built to complete their superbomb? He stumbled along; aware the Russians would be close behind.
As he made his way along the passage, he considered what the Soviets would do to his people, the wounded if they found them, and it was anything but good. He switched off his flashlight and continued threading his way along the tunnel, and they were getting closer. Hurrying as if they’d heard him and knew he was there. He quickened his pace but tripped on an uneven tie and fell face down beside the rails, landing in a patch of squelching mud.
He was lying in pitch darkness. They were almost on him, and he lay still. They wouldn’t see him unless they stepped on him. Seconds before they reached him, he felt around where he’d fallen and realized he lay next to a natural fissure in the tunnel wall. No more than a few inches deep, not enough to hide a man, but it could be enough if he remained still as a statue in the darkness.
He pressed himself into the tiny crevice. It didn’t hide his body completely, but was enough to camouflage his outline, and he waited. Still as a statue and without the weak beam of their flashlight exposing him, two men passed him without a sideways glance. The man in the lead was huge, brutal-looking, with NCO’s stripes on his sleeve. He carried a rifle on his shoulder, a Russian Moisin Nagant, fitted with a telescopic sight. The Soviet equivalent of his Springfield. Almost. He doubted the quality of their engineering would be in the same league, although the weapon had something of a reputation.
He’d heard the tales of the Siberian sniper Vasily Zaitsev, a man the Russians trumpeted as a Soviet hero. He served with distinction on the Stalingrad front, and according to the Russians, he’d killed two hundred and twenty-five enemy soldiers. During the battle, he earned himself a formidable reputation and was awarded the medal ‘Hero of the Soviet Union.’ This man wasn’t Zaitsev, but his weapon was the same. He recalled the bullet that hit him in the shoulder, fired from up on the hillside, and wondered if it could’ve been this man. The bullet they’d pulled out was identical to that fired from a Moisin Nagant rifle, and he doubted there were that many in the sector.
The man who followed was a private soldier, about half the size of the NCO, but he looked tough enough. Abruptly, Murphy decided he’d have to take both of them, without making noise to alert the men on the outside. That meant using the knife, the Fairbairn Sykes. His weapon of last resort at close range. Inside this tunnel, his weapon of first resort.
He silently stepped out behind the soldier in the rear, put a hand around his mouth to stop him from crying out, and sliced the razor-sharp blade across his throat. He lowered him to the ground, confident he was dead, but it hadn’t been totally noiseless. When the soldier first felt the hand over his mouth, he’d kicked out and stubbed his boot against a steel rail. As he lowered the body to the ground, the leading soldier was already turning.
His reflexes were exceptional, and he reacted fast. His first instinct was to use the rifle, and he snatched it off his shoulder. Started to bring around to put a bullet in the unknown assailant, but in the narrow confines of the tunnel, the barrel caught on the rock wall. He jerked it back to try again, but Murphy didn’t plan on giving him the opportunity. He lunged forward with the knife and struck out. Sliced into the Russian's belly, but a huge, muscular paw chopped at his wrist, deflecting the blow before it went deep.
The big man sized him up in a split second, and his lips twitched into a cruel smile. Instead of trying a second time with the rifle, he tossed it to one side and reached down to his belt. A huge knife appeared in his hand. He growled a challenge, followed by a string of Russian words that had to be curses, and he came at him. And in his still-confused brain, it wasn’t the Russian who came at him, it was that SS officer, Clemence’s would-be rapist and murderer. The man he’d killed in Normandy. His brain was playing tricks, taking him back to that epic fight. He’d have to kill him again, but the soldier was bigger than he remembered, more powerful, and a moment later he leaped aside to avoid a mortal thrust as the knife sliced past him
For a split second the Russian was off balance, and he stumbled forward. Murphy stabbed again, this time in the side, and the guy howled with rage and pain. He jumped on the huge soldier to finish him off, but once again the soldier’s response was as quick as a cat, and he twisted away. A huge hand reached up and grabbed Murphy by the front of his combat jacket, and he fought to push him away. From the corner of his eye, he saw the blade come back at him, and he dodged it. The wrist holding the knife flashed past, and he took a wild stab at it. The edge of his Fairbairn Sykes sliced into the tendons of the man’s wrist, and once again he howled in pain and rage.
But instead of releasing his grip on his combat jacket, he held it tighter and pulled him closer. Neither man had space to deliver major blows, to do anything other than grapple, and they grappled. The big Russian was losing blood at a rapid rate, but it didn’t seem to make any difference to his strength. He forced Murphy’s head and neck down over a rail and pressed hard. He struggled to breathe, but he was slowly being strangled by the relentless pressure, and he made a huge, desperate effort.
He stabbed upward, and by sheer luck found the huge Russian’s most vulnerable spot, his groin. He pushed the blade into the soft flesh, and this time he had to let go to protect his manhood. The Russian tried to push the blade away, but Murphy kept it pushed in hard. Until in a lightning move, he ripped it out and stabbed upward into the brutal face hovering above his head. The sharpened steel took a huge slice from his jaw, slicing through muscles around the mouth, leaving the jaw hanging down, and even more blood pouring out onto the ground.
He'd weakened, and with a huge effort, he shoved the man off him, looking for the next vulnerable place to strike. The Russian crawled several feet away and waited for him, his own knife pointed forward. Daring him to try.
He tried. After so much blood loss, his strength had lessened as well as his catlike reaction time. Murphy jabbed one way, he moved, jabbed the other way, and the third time he struck. Putting every ounce of his strength behind the thrust and pushed it into the area around his heart. The effect was immediate. The soldier stiffened, he stared at Murphy, grunted a single word he didn’t understand, and slumped.
He checked the body to make sure he was dead, and there was no question. That last blow had torn into his heart, and death had been almost instantaneous. He crawled over to check on the other soldier, who lay between the rails, and he was also dead. His body was numb with increased pain after the huge effort, and he felt close to losing consciousness. He banged his head with his fist once again to get his brain moving again and tried to massage some life into his aching muscles.
It had been close, very close, and he’d been lucky. But it wasn’t done. Those Russians were still on the outside, and Richter could be holed up deeper inside. He had to go on, had to reach him first. He had to find him and find the notebook with Neuberg’s calculations. But what to do with it? Probably best to destroy it and make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Although there could be information inside that was valuable to America, especially if Neuberg was killed. He’d be faced with a dilemma. Provided he found him.
He’d worry about that when the time came. First, find Richter, and find a way to avoid those Russian soldiers who’d soon come looking for the two men who’d disappeared inside the tunnel and failed to return. He went deeper underground, groping his way further into the labyrinth. He reckoned he must’ve walked for almost a mile a steel door prevented him from going further.
The door was like the watertight bulkhead doors he’d seen on the ship that transported him and the rest of his unit across the Atlantic to England. Fastened with steel clips top and bottom, and when he tried to move one, it didn’t budge. They’d constructed the secure door for a reason, and it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to work out that he’d reached his objective. On the other side of that door had to be what he was looking for.
All he had to do was get the door open, and whoever had closed and locked it from the other side didn’t intend for it to open. There was only one way. He unsnapped two grenades from his webbing. Hung one over the top clip and another over the bottom. It was a risk. As soon as he pulled the pins, the levers would fly out, and he’d have barely four seconds to make himself scarce and run back along the tunnel. Where the Russians were already on the way. He could hear movement in the distance. They were following, moving closer, and he’d be running back toward them.
After he blasted off the levers holding the door closed, the pursuing Russians would rush in, and they’d already proved they had no issues with shooting at their American allies. Unless he worked something out, he was a dead man. Even if he made it, there was the question of what he’d find on the other side. The German could be waiting for him with a machine gun, and he could walk into a hail of bullets. He would’ve smiled if it hadn’t been so serious. Enemies behind you, and enemies in front of you.
What’s a man to do? Shoot the fuckers, that’s what.
He could hold off the Russians for a short time, and somehow, he’d find a way to deal with Richter. Although not shoot the fucker. He could think it through until hell froze over, and he wouldn’t find a solution. Except to just go for it. Shit or bust. He snatched the pins from the grenades and sprinted back along the tunnel, counting the seconds and threw himself flat a split second ahead of the explosions. In the confined space the aftershock slammed into him, lifting his body off the ground and tossing him several feet further back.
The hard landing slammed the breath out of his body, and he landed on the injured shoulder. More jagged shards of agony coursed through him, but he didn’t have time to screw around and think about the pain. He unslung his MP-40, pulled himself to his feet, and raced back along the tunnel. The door hung ajar a few inches, and he pulled it open wider, rushed through, and he was inside a cavern. He attempted to close the door, but it was a no-go, the two grenades had made a mess and twisted the steel out of shape.
