The Last Enemy, page 18
So far, the Russians hadn’t continued to pursue, probably waiting in case the next grenade went in their direction. He suddenly realized he wasn’t alone. He glanced around and a man was standing several yards away. It had to be him. Middle-aged, wearing a creased and disheveled SS uniform. He was staring at Murphy in shock, openmouthed, wide-eyed, stuttering, trying to say something.
He couldn’t resist, and croaked, “Dr. Richter, I presume?”
He coughed and spat to clear the dust clogging his throat with dust from the twin explosions.
The man stared at him like he was a genie that’d appeared from a bottle “Who are you?”
“Murphy, First Lieutenant, United States Army Rangers. And you’re under arrest. You’re coming with me.”
At that moment, he heard the clatter of boots, hoarse shouts, men moving through the tunnel. The German cocked an eyebrow. “Those men are with you?” He spoke good English, with just a faint Germanic accent.
“Nope, they’re Russians. They’ve come for you.”
His face drained of color. “Russians! My God! Don’t let them take me! I can’t go with them. Do you know what our soldiers did to the Russians when we invaded? What they’re doing to us?”
“Mister, I’ve got a good idea, but those men will be here in less than a minute, so the priority is to stop them.” He considered what he was up against. The German wasn’t a physical threat. Despite his rank in the SS, he was an academic and a scientist. He was scared of the Russians, and maybe that would make him cooperate. But he’d need more than a half-empty machine pistol to fight them off, “Do you have weapons stashed around here?”
He nodded toward an open doorway. “In the next room you’ll find a rack with an MG-34, two MP-40s, and four pistols. They made them available to instantly use, in case of an attack from outside.”
“Get them. They’ll be here in a few seconds. I’ll try to hold them off.”
“At once.”
He rushed away, and Murphy went to the door into the tunnel. In time to see the face of a soldier appear. He pointed a submachine gun at him. “Stop right there, pal! Come any closer and I’ll shoot.”
The man paused. “You can’t stop us. If you want to live, let us through. I have a company of Red Army paratroopers out here, and I suspect you’re just one man.”
“Mister, you’re inside the American sector, and there’s no way you’re coming through.”
He stared back at him. “Is he with you? Richter?”
That dispelled any lingering doubts he had about why they were here and fuck the agreements between the respective Allies. The Soviets wanted to get their hands on every bit of knowledge about the ‘superbomb.’ So they could build it first. He didn’t reply. If he confirmed he was with them, he had little doubt the Soviets would fling every soldier into an attack, determined to reach him no matter how many casualties they took. Men’s lives were of no consequence to the Soviets. About as worthless as discarded bubble gum wrappers.
Two men appeared, charging toward him, firing PPSh submachine guns. Bullets ricocheted around the walls, and he positioned himself behind the steel door. Waiting as they got closer. When they were near enough, he stepped out, squeezed the trigger and emptied the magazine. The burst tossed them into a bloody heap on the rails. He rapidly switched magazines, waiting for the next attack, but one machine pistol wouldn’t be enough.
“Richter, hurry up with that machine gun. I need it now!”
There was no reply, and he wondered if the guy had been hit by the lead that’d sprayed every which way. He had no choice but to go look for him. He raced through the doorway into the room, and it was empty. The space was lined with an array of complicated equipment, and in the center, what appeared to be a steel cradle, positioned beneath an overhead crane. The cradle was empty. On a shelf fastened to the wall he noticed a partly dismantled MP-40 and a box of mags. He helped himself and reloaded.
On the other side of the room was a set of double doors. He ran toward them and tried to get them open, but they were bolted from the other side. An engine roared into life, and he knew what was happening. The guy had an escape route planned. It wasn’t the narrow-gauge railroad. There had to be a hidden road tunnel dug through the rock, and that cradle had supported the device they’d been building. A device that was already loaded when he arrived. Richter had been playing for time, played him for a sucker, and he’d fallen for it like a ten-year-old kid.
He had to get through those double doors. He located the hinges and emptied a magazine into the mechanism to rip the metal apart. He wrenched the door open and stood aside. With no means of support, the heavy portal dropped down and hit the floor. In time to spot Richter driving away in a peculiar vehicle. A shortened half-track, like the Germans used to tow artillery and ammunition. The bodywork at the rear had been removed and replaced with a heavy steel frame that sloped inward, almost like a pyramid, but without the pointed top.
Poking out of the frame was the riveted steel case of a metal cylinder about five feet in diameter and six feet high. He knew a bomb when he saw one. The bastard was getting the device away, and he sprinted after him. Took aim with his machine pistol to put a bullet in him, but he’d emptied the magazine to get the doors open, and the trigger clicked on empty. He kept running, but the strange vehicle was accelerating along a wide tunnel.
He was losing the race. The half-track was getting further ahead, his wound was on fire, and as if it couldn’t be worse, he heard shouts from behind. A bullet whistled past him, so they’d got past the door and were getting closer. It wouldn’t be long before he got hit, and he reached for another magazine. Thirty rounds, not much to hold off a shitload of Russians. A long burst of automatic fire chewed chips of rock from the wall, scant inches from his head. They were getting too close. He was out of time. If he continued running, he’d be out in the open, an easy target. He flung himself to the ground, aimed at the nearest Russians, no more than thirty yards back, and started shooting.
He squeezed off ten shots and saw three men go down. The rest pulled back, and he scrambled to his feet and continued chasing the half-track. Seconds blurred into minutes, and he lost track of time. All he knew was he had to keep running, even though there was no chance. He wasn’t aware how long he’d been running, his life had become a blur of pain and motion, and more pain and more motion. And then he spotted it. At first, he thought he was seeing things, but it’d come to a stop in front of another set of double doors, and Richter was wrestling with the bolts to unfasten them.
He ran past the vehicle and grabbed him.
“Listen to me, motherfucker, Germany’s finished. You’re finished, and if the Russians get you, your life is over. Make up your mind, America or Russia. What’s it gonna be? You have no more than a few seconds to decide before they get here, and if you screw with me again, I’ll shoot you like a dog.”
He looked at him with a crazed expression. “It’s not true, we can win. The Bolshevik hordes will be the end of us all. You must help me! America must help me! When this device detonates, everything will be different.”
The guy didn’t get it. Like his Nazi bosses in Berlin, they couldn’t get their heads around the truth. Refused to accept reality, or maybe they couldn’t accept reality. If the terrible stories that were coming out of the East were even partly true, there’d be plenty of people after their sorry scalps, and there’d be no place they could run and hide. From the Soviets, and more especially from avenging Jews. They wouldn’t stop until they’d run them to earth and delivered the Biblical ‘eye for an eye.’ They’d receive payment in kind for what they’d done, and the guys at the stop were shit scared. Too scared to throw in the towel.
He had to get away. The Russians were coming up fast, and he examined the bolts holding the door closed. They were rusted and refused to move, probably as a result of the dampness that’d seeped into the tunnel. He dragged out his Colt, held it by the barrel, and used it like a hammer to beat at the unyielding metal. The running footsteps were getting closer, and with one eye on Richter, he managed to free the top bolt. Hammered at the lower bolt, and it moved a bit. Hit it again and again, until it slid open.
He shouted at the German to get the doors open while he leaped into the driver’s seat. The engine was still running, and he engaged forward gear. The cumbersome vehicle lurched forward, almost running Richter down as he struggled to pull the second door open. He succeeded, the doors opened, and on the other side, they were faced with thick foliage that would’ve been planted to hide the tunnel exit. He shouted at Richter to climb aboard while they were moving, and he drove through the bushes, out onto a patch of rough, rocky ground.
“Where does this lead?” he shouted to him.
“We’ll reach a track that runs into the road for Berlin, but there are several rivers to cross. They may have bombed the bridges.”
“I wouldn’t worry about bridges, and we’re you’re not going anywhere near Berlin. Is that thing in back what I think it is?”
His gaze was cunning, and Murphy knew he hadn’t given up. The bastard was planning something, and this was too big, too important for scruples. He was tempted to put a bullet in him.
“Yes, the fission device. A masterpiece of German technology. But it’s not quite finished. There is still work to complete.”
He didn’t know what to believe or whether letting him live was a good idea. A bullet whizzed past, and he glanced behind him. The first of the Russians had appeared, but they were a half-mile back, too far for accurate shooting. He needed to reach American lines pronto, and the nearest was the 27th Division. Fine if he knew where they were, but he didn’t. They could be anywhere. They reached the road, and he made a decision. Took a right, heading north.
Unless he’d got it wrong, Witherspoon would be leading his men in this direction, and he needed help if the Russians somehow caught up. The vehicle was a pig to drive, and every second he fought to keep control. Worse for a man with a wounded shoulder, and worse when that man was trying to watch a prisoner who could attempt to escape the moment he thought he saw an opportunity.
He drove for almost an hour and saw no sign of any movement. Until several black dots appeared in the sky about five miles away, and he recalled he was driving a German vehicle with German military markings. They’d be Allied fighters, looking for enemy targets to attack, and the half-track would fit the bill perfectly.
He drove off the road into an orchard. The trees were covered in leaves, enough to give him cover, and he waited while the aircraft flew past. P-47 Thunderbolts, a flight of four, and for one moment he thought they’d spotted him and were diving to attack, but they’d found another target. A mile away they swooped low, cannons firing, launching rockets at targets on the ground. He climbed on the hood of the vehicle to get a better look, and the targets were several vehicles approaching a stone bridge.
The fighters flew away, and he looked around to check on Richter. He spotted him in the rear of the vehicle, adjusting the device. He lunged toward him. “Mister, get back in your seat, or I’ll put a bullet in you.”
He didn’t move, not at first. Not until Murphy fired a shot over his head. He gave him a sly look and held up his hands. “I was making sure the load was secure.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” He climbed back into the cab. Murphy pressed the button, started the engine, and drove away. Within seconds he sensed something was wrong. When he looked across at the German, he’d somehow produced a Luger pistol and pointed it at his belly, “Stop the vehicle and get out.”
He had the drop on him, and he didn’t have any choice, so he climbed down onto the road.
“Richter, no matter which way you go, you’ll run into an Allied army. Head to Berlin, and the last I heard the Red Army had it surrounded. You’re finished.”
“I don’t think so.”
Murphy saw his finger tighten on the trigger, and at the last moment threw himself to one side behind the bulk of the vehicle. He scuttled into an irrigation ditch at the side of the road and lay flat as the bullet whined inches past his head. Seconds later the engine roared, and when he popped his head up, the German was driving away toward the northwest. It didn’t make sense. He’d encounter the combined armies of the United States and Britain, hundreds of thousands of men, armor, and aircraft.
The reason struck him like a thunderbolt. If he got close enough to detonate, it would be devastating, enough to wipe out an entire army. He had to go after him, stop him. He picked himself out of the ditch and started to follow. Richter was well ahead of him and getting further away with every passing minute. Yet even if he got close, he couldn’t stop a half-track with just a few bullets. All he could do was follow. And hope for a miracle.
In the distance, he heard the rumble of guns and watched aircraft weaving and diving in an aerial ballet as they attacked targets on the ground. A battle was raging somewhere up there. It could be his own Division, the 27th. He wondered if the action was where the wounded waited with Clemence taking care of them, and if the Russians had harmed them in their race to follow him. It was more than likely the location. If Richter planned to detonate that device, they’d likely be wiped out in a single, devastating blast.
He redoubled his efforts, but it was too feeble, nothing like enough. He’d have given anything for some transport, like a Willys jeep, or a motorcycle, even a bicycle. But there was nothing, the countryside had been stripped bare. He kept moving, and every step was agonizing. He found himself longing for the warm embrace of the morphine, yet had it been available, he’d have refused. If there was one thing worse than the pain, it would be seeing fellow soldiers blasted into little pieces. So, he kept running.
Yet he slowed even more, and then he stumbled. Fell to the ground, rolled over, and when he lay on his back, he was looking at a bunch of grim-faced men, every rifle pointed down at him.
Chapter Ten
“Boss!”
“Lt, what the hell!”
They weren’t the enemy, and they lowered the rifles. He was surrounded by American soldiers. His men, with what was left of Wetherspoon’s two platoons. Although there was no sign of the Lieutenant.
“The half-track! Where is it?”
Rooker shrugged. “We saw this weird contraption drive past, but it didn’t look worth going after. What happened to you?”
“Not now! We must stop that vehicle. Where’s Witherspoon?”
“The countryside is still crawling with enemy soldiers, and we ran into them. A couple of hundred Germans heading south. I guess to join the defense of Berlin. They took us by surprise, and we got into a serious firefight. We lost the Lieutenant, along with a couple of dozen men before we could shoot our way out. When we broke off, they continued heading south. We went back for the wounded and moved them to hopefully a safer place, didn’t fancy their chances being left there will all this going on,” He grimaced, “It’s not gonna be easy catching that vehicle. We don’t have transport. What’s so important about it?”
“The driver is Richter. That weird half-track is carrying the device they’ve been developing.”
He shrugged. “He won’t get far. The Division bumped into another enemy ambush on the hillside. That’s what that battle is all about, and they’re giving the Krauts a beating. There are several thousand men along that road, with armor and air support. He ain’t got a chance.”
“Sergeant, that device, it’s a bomb. The superbomb every man and his dog is chasing. The bomb they say can destroy a city or an entire army in a single explosion.”
Rooker glanced up the road as if he could see the vehicle receding into the distance.
“Shit. What do we do?”
“We go after him. He may get held up by something, in which case we’ll have a chance. Get them moving.”
He didn’t get them moving. Glanced from one man to the other, and they didn’t look happy. “Uh, what if that damn thing explodes when we get close?”
“I don’t know. What I’m saying is we must do everything possible to stop it. Unless you want to see a couple of thousand men wiped out in the blink of an eye.”
Men shuffled their feet nervously. Rooker mumbled, “I guess we don’t have a choice.”
“Let’s go.”
They jogged along the road, and with every step his agony increased in line with his despair. He knew he was slowing them down. There was no way he could keep up. He told Rooker to go ahead, but he wasn’t having any of it. Like before, he assigned Gordon and Kelly to help him along. They took an arm apiece and almost lifted him off the ground, almost carrying him. He was aware he was still slowing them down. He tried to persuade them to leave him, but they weren’t having it.
They were getting closer to the battle raging up ahead. He figured they had to be getting closer to Richter. And wondered if he planned to use his superbomb in a suicidal last act of destruction to wipe out the entire Division and block the Allied advance.
They jogged on but found no sign of him, just the noise and smoke of the battle raging up ahead. They had to find him, had to stop him. But how? His strength was waning as fast as the pain was increasing, and despite their help, his pace had slowed to a crawl.
“Sergeant, you must leave me. The lives of thousands of men are at stake, so I’ll wait here. I’ll be fine, and when it’s over, send some men back to pick me up. That’s an order.”
He wasn’t happy, but Murphy told him he couldn’t go on. He detailed Gordon and Kelly to stay with him while he pushed on at a faster pace. They jogged away and Gordon and Kelly dragged him off the road and stopped behind the ruins of a small cottage. He guessed soldiers had been sheltering inside making it a target, and it had taken a direct hit from at least one shell.
