They were all good men, and he was determined to do his utmost to get them through the war alive. Murphy unslung his MP-40, checked the magazine, and replaced it. Patted his pockets and discovered he was down to one spare mag. It would have to be enough. He gestured to Lucas to stay with him and keep the Springfield close. He had a strong suspicion he could be needing it. They were as ready as they could be, and he cupped his hands to shout to the Russians.

  “Time’s up. If you want to stay alive, get out now.”

  “Yob tvoy mat!”

  The same curse he’d heard underground and had believed it to be a long-dead Roman soldier.

  Go fuck yourself, shithead.

  Not a ghost, but a Russian. He was about to give the order to open fire, but he was too late. They suddenly melted away, diving into cover, and fired first. Bullets raked their positions, and he flung himself behind a tree. Searching for targets, but the Reds were good. They’d used trees, rocks, and natural contours of the ground to hide behind, and they didn’t show themselves for more than a couple of seconds at a time. Just long enough to pop up, snatch off a few shots, and duck down again.

  The Russians were going to be tough to deal with. He gestured for Lucas to pass the Springfield to him. He detached the scope and peered out from the tree to survey their positions. There was little to see, just the occasional man popping up, firing, and disappearing. What were they trying to achieve? There was no way they could beat them. The Rangers were in an elevated position, and the moment they tried to close in they’d blast them.

  He looked up at the sky, and the light was fading, so maybe that was it. They were waiting for nightfall. It wouldn’t do them much good. The sky had cleared, and there were no clouds. The area would be bathed in moonlight, making any attempt to attack suicide. They had to have something else in mind, but what? He was still thinking it through when two flares went up, an orange and a green.

  What the fuck?

  He couldn’t make any sense of it, unless there were more Russians in the area, and they were calling in reinforcements. It wasn’t likely. So, what were they up to?

  He called over, “Men, they’re up to something, so look for the unexpected. Sergeant, whatever it is, we need to deal with them before it happens. Can you get men around their flank without being spotted?”

  A pause. “They’d have to take a long detour through the trees. There’s a gully about a mile back. They could sneak across and work their way along the opposite slope, but it’ll take time.”

  “Do it. Send two men. Tell them to take up a position on their flank and start shooting right away.”

  “Copy that. Gordon, Watson, you heard the man, get moving.”

  They crawled up the slope and disappeared into the trees. Murphy continued searching the Russian positions through the scope, trying to work out what they were up to. One thing was for sure, they couldn’t allow them to remain here. Neither could they wait too long. Dr. Karl-Heinz Richter would be heading toward the mirror laboratory, and he didn’t like to think what would happen if they got there and applied Neuberg’s calculations to complete a working weapon. He’d wait for Gordon and Watson to start shooting, he reckoned about an hour, and let them have it.

  He noted the time on his watch, 22.35. At 23.35, they’d give them hell. The night closed in, and as he’d surmised, the moon came up and cast a bright glow over the area. If the Russians made a move, they’d spot them. He reminded the men to stay alert in case they tried something unexpected. He had no illusions. That officer had made it clear he wasn’t leaving, not for anything. He was Joe Stalin’s man, and the Soviet dictator would’ve ordered him to get Richter and spirit him back to Moscow for the Russians to prize everything out of his brain to make their own working device.

  He doubted they were aware of Neuberg’s notebook, but if they grabbed Richter, they’d likely get their hands on that as well. It wasn’t gonna happen. It couldn’t happen. He checked through the scope again, marveling at the clarity of the superb optics that enabled him to see everything with such pinpoint sharpness.

  How could something so old be this good?

  Like the Springfield, an older rifle some would consider outdated, but still capable of scoring hits at impossibly long range. He saw no movement and worried they could’ve moved off. Until a bullet smacked into the tree close to his head, followed by a further fusillade.

  He instinctively ducked back, and several men cursed as they almost got hit. The Russians were still there.

  He shouted, “Something’s happening. Keep your heads down.”

  The shooting stopped. Everything was quiet, and after a couple of minutes, men began to peek out from behind cover. But and once again shots peppered their position, forcing them to pull back.

  What the hell are they up to?

  They were just wasting bullets. Are they planning a frontal attack? Not likely, it would be suicide! True, he’d heard stories of suicidal Red Army attacks on the Eastern Front, but what could these soldiers hope to gain? And what’d happened to the two men he’d sent to hit them on the flank? Why weren’t they doing any shooting? He stared into the distance, hoping to see some sign of them, but there was nothing. It was like they’d disappeared. And then the shit hit the fan. The shooting resumed, and it all happened at once.

  Rooker shouted, “Lt, parachutes! I count about sixty men.”

  “Stay behind cover until we’re sure who they are.”

  Suddenly, the area was filling with soldiers. “Hold your fire. They’ll likely be friendlies.”

  A cluster of parachutes landed in two groups, one closer to the Russian position and the other on the ridge above them. They had to be Airborne, who else would they be? Any moment now those Russians would know they had no choice but to surrender.

  He glimpsed a bunch of paratroopers disengaging from their harnesses and racing toward the Russian positions. They weren’t shooting at them. They were greeting them. Like comrades!

  Fuck!

  “Listen up, those paratroopers aren’t ours, they’re Russians.” A lot of them, and without reinforcements, they were fucked.

  “Lt,” Rooker shouted, “A bunch of our guys just arrived. It looks like two platoons. Gordon and Watson met up with them, and the guy in charge ordered them to guide them to us. He wants to speak with you.”

  “I need to speak with him and work out how to get out of this. Send him forward.”

  “Colonel Debrett said for you to go to him.”

  He couldn’t believe the name he’d just heard. “Who did you say?”

  “Colonel Debrett. He’s the officer in charge.”

  He wanted to say, ‘That idiot couldn’t find his way from one end of a street to the other.’ He didn’t say it. He crawled back to where Rooker crouched behind a tree, and it was true. Hunkered down behind him was the familiar figure of Colonel Raymond Debrett. Not as immaculate as usual, a branch had caught on the shoulder of his uniform and sliced into the fabric. His boots were coated with mud, but everything else was the same.

  Murphy didn’t bother to give him a salute. They were in the middle of a nasty firefight, and it promised to get a whole lot nastier.

  “Why are you here, Colonel?”

  He returned a haughty stare. “I’m taking charge of your platoon, Murphy, and we’re ordered to go looking for the men who mutilated Lieutenant Shriver and his men.”

  “Excuse me? Mutilated?”

  “That’s correct.” He described what they’d found, the heads impaled on the stakes, “The General has made finding and punishing those men a number one priority. It takes precedence over everything. What’s your situation?”

  “Sir, we’re taking fire from further down the slope. A bunch of soldiers down there, and like us they’re looking for the Nazi scientist.”

  He sneered. “Are you talking about this so-called ‘superbomb’ nonsense?’ I don’t believe a word of it. It’s just another of Hitler’s fantasies. How many Germans are you up against down there?”

  He was about to correct him and tell him they were Russians when he changed his mind. It would take too long to explain why they had to stop their supposed ‘allies.’ Besides, when they first encountered them, they were wearing German uniforms. How were they to know any different?

  “Sixty or seventy.”

  Debrett recoiled in horror. “Sixty or seventy? That’s more than we can handle. We’re pulling back until I’ve advised General Shriver so he can send in more men. Maybe he could arrange an airstrike. Get ready to…”

  He didn’t finish. A shattering volley of bullets ripped into their position. Debrett’s two platoons were out in the open, and three men immediately went down. The rest scrambled for cover. They didn’t return fire, not until Murphy bellowed at them.

  “Shoot back! Get the bastards before they get us!”

  He saw several men gaping at Debrett as if waiting for him to confirm the order, but he shouted again, and they started to move. Crockett got the Browning into action and peppered the ridge with .50 caliber bullets. A few men had the sense to shoot at the Russians down below, but it wasn’t looking good. They were outnumbered, and the men Debrett had brought along didn’t seem to know what they were doing. A lieutenant he didn’t recognize crawled next to him. “You’re First Lieutenant Murphy?”

  He nodded. “Jack.”

  “Jim Witherspoon, First Lieutenant. These men are new, with no combat experience, so I don’t expect them to perform miracles.”

  “You’re gonna need miracles if we’re gonna survive this. What happened to Debrett? He was here just now.”

  “He…uh… disappeared soon after the shooting started.”

  “It’s no loss. You seen any action?”

  “We got into a fight with some Krauts, but they surrendered after we exchanged the first few shots. That’s all, I’m afraid.”

  “Okay, we’re in a situation, and we need to deal with it. Those guys out there aren’t rookies, but we must get past them to complete the mission.”

  Witherspoon frowned. “Lieutenant Murphy, the mission is to locate and punish the men who mutilated Lieutenant Shriver and his platoon.”

  He shook his head. “The mission is to hunt down a Nazi scientist.” He outlined what it was about and told him it couldn’t wait, whether Colonel Debrett or General Shriver liked it or not, “So we’re gonna get on with it.”

  He shouted to Rooker, “Keep firing, and make sure they don’t get any closer. Neuberg, where are you?”

  “He’s with me,” Lawson replied.

  He crawled over to them and looked at the German. Asked him again about an alternative route to reach the underground facility, and told him they had to find something, and fast. At first, he looked blank. Said he’d never heard of any alternative route, but moments later his forehead creased up in thought. “There is, or was, the narrow-gauge railroad. It could be nothing.”

  “Or it could be something. Where is it?”

  He shrugged and pointed to the other side of the ridge. “It has to be over there, where it would exit outside the Harz to carry the minerals they extracted.”

  It made sense. At this late stage of the war, the Nazis wouldn’t have relied on a single exit to bring out the weapon. If Allied bombing had sealed off the main entrance, a secondary railroad would serve in an emergency. But they still had to get past the Russians on the slope above them. A lot of Russians, and he wasn’t confident about the ability of Witherspoon’s rookies to take them on.

  They have to take them on.

  He looked for Debrett. There was no sign of him, but Witherspoon was nearby, and he called him over. Explained what he had in mind, and the Lieutenant agreed. “They’re soldiers, so they’ll do what they were trained to do. Tell me what you need.”

  “The slope is covered in trees, so we’ll have plenty of cover. We sneak up there out of sight, and when we’re close enough, hit them head-on.”

  He nodded. “My men may not have combat experience, but it’s what they trained for, and I know they’ll give it everything they have.” He didn’t look convinced, “Although men are going to die.”

  “Like you said, they do what they trained for. Dying is part of it. We need to move out before they work out what we’re up to.”

  “Colonel Lawson, will he be okay?”

  He grinned. “Try to stop him.”

  They weren’t happy, but Rooker didn’t take any shit. Minutes later they were crawling up the slope, threading through the trees. Murphy was upfront with Kelly, and when he estimated they were no more than thirty yards away, he catapulted to his feet.

  “Hit them now! Kill the bastards!”

  They sprinted up the hill and caught the Russians by surprise. It was the last thing they expected. After all, they had the high ground, and they had the numbers, so they had them beat. Except they didn’t have them beat. To his credit, Witherspoon led from the front. They followed Murphy’s platoon, storming up the hill, and they were on them before they’d worked out what was happening. The fight developed into a vicious, hand-to-hand slugfest between Americans and stunned Russian paratroopers.

  They were experienced soldiers who’d seen plenty of action, but after a long burst from Crockett’s Browning sliced into their officer, three men, and two NCOs, they realized they were in trouble. If they’d kept their heads, they’d have made a fight of it, but the sudden and unexpected attack, combined with the loss of their leaders, was too much. Three or four hardened veterans stayed to fight, but most died, too stunned to move. A few ran.

  Several men raced after them, but he shouted at them to let them go. They’d just keep running east until they reached their own lines. The Rangers had a mission to complete, and Murphy felt their chances of doing just that had gone up a notch. There was something else. The arrival of the Russians proved that what they were after was no flight of Hitler’s fantasy. It was real, had to be real, or they wouldn’t have sent so many men into the American sector.

  They pushed onto the top of the slope. “After that, it’s downhill all the way.”

  Nobody replied. After the exertion of racing uphill and fighting the Russians, they were panting, struggling to suck in oxygen. Rooker and Kelly were on either side of him, ready to support him, just in case. They crested the hill and looked down at a narrow valley. On the far side, a half-mile of thick forest grew up yet another slope. He guessed the road was over the next ridge. Had to be. The narrow-gauge railroad would be sure to emerge near the road, so they could unload bogies onto trucks, ready to take them away for processing.

  Witherspoon wasn’t far behind. Further back he spotted Colonel Debrett shouting something to the men. Witherspoon looked back and hesitated, but Murphy shouted, “Forget him. We need to beat them to it.”

  “Beat them to it?”

  “How long will it take them to work out we know where we’re going, and they’re sure to follow.”

  “But… Colonel Debrett.”

  He grinned. “If he can keep up, he’s welcome to come along.”

  Chapter Eight

  They pushed through the trees and reached the summit of the ridge. Looking down on the road below, Shriver’s men were about to run into trouble. To the north, trucks, armor, and infantry on foot were heading south in a long column that must’ve stretched a mile back or more. The 27th Division had resumed their march. Waiting for them, the Germans had dug themselves into yet another concealed position on the side of the slope. Shriver’s troops were walking into an ambush.

  They watched for several minutes, working out how long before the Division reached the ambush spot where the enemy waited to open fire on them. It couldn’t be long, an hour at most.

  Lawson murmured, “We can’t let them walk into it.”

  Rooker grunted, “It won’t be easy. All we have is light weapons, and they have plenty of ordnance. I can see 3.7mm PAK 36 anti-tank guns and plenty of machine guns.”

  Murphy glanced at them. “But no STuG mobile assault guns. No armor and we have the advantage of surprise. The last thing they’ll expect is an attack from behind.”

  The Sarge frowned. “They also have a lot of men. There must be over a hundred Germans down there.”

  “Hit them hard enough and they’ll break and run.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  He grinned. “I guess we’re about to find out. We’ll get in close and go in hard and fast.”

  “It might work,” Rooker grumbled, “Or it might not.”

  “What alternative do we have? We can’t let our guys walk another ambush. We need to start moving down there.”

  He started to get to his feet and staggered as shards of pain tore through his body. Rooker gave him a dubious look. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. Move out, and make sure they don’t spot us.”

  They dropped to a crawl, and slowly closed the distance to the enemy. He’d lied. He wasn’t fine. Every movement was a nightmare of agony tearing through his badly injured shoulder which had started to bleed again, but he closed his mind to it. Kelly noticed he was in trouble and suggested another shot of morphine, but he declined. He needed a clear head, not another nightmare vision of an encounter with some long-dead Nazi he’d killed in Normandy. They got to within one hundred yards of the enemy without being sighted. The going was about to get tougher.

  “Lock and load, men. We’re going in.”

  They got to their feet and advanced down the slope. At first, they didn’t notice the American soldiers, until they started hosing them down with lead. As well as his Rangers, Murphy had the remnants of two platoons of infantry, around fifty men in all. Witherspoon shouted, and his men charged forward, rushing down the slope. Debrett bellowed at them to come back. He was wasting his breath.

  The Germans reacted fast. Rifle fire peppered the attacking Americans, and some was accurate. Two men went down, but the rest surged forward on the run led by Witherspoon, with Debrett still shouting at them to come back. A machine gun opened up, followed by another and another as the enemy recovered from the shock and rapidly brought their weapons around to face the new threat. The slope was a chaos of automatic fire and men dropping to the ground. Some dived into cover, but others were hit by the storm of lead. Debrett’s panicked voice continued shouting at them to get back.