He was out in the open and running up the slope. Zigzagging to make a more difficult target, another bullet whistled past him, so close it tore skin from his ear. He couldn’t avoid the next one, he was that close the guy couldn’t miss. But blessedly Lawson started shooting again. He’d inserted a spare magazine and a hail of poorly aimed bullets splattered around the sniper hole. It was enough to give him a chance, and he went for it. No more zigzagging, just get there fast and ace the motherfucker.

  He was still twenty yards away when Lawson ran out of bullets, and a split second later the barrel of the rifle poked through the hole and pointed at his belly. He didn’t have a choice. He aimed the Springfield in the rough direction of the rifle barrel and squeezed the trigger. Worked the bolt and squeezed the trigger again, and again, kept running. He reloaded and almost reached the hole when a soldier in German uniform suddenly pushed aside the camouflage and stepped out into the open. He put the butt of his rifle to his shoulder and took aim.

  Murphy should’ve died. They were less than five yards apart, and it didn’t need a telescopic sight to get off an accurate shot. It was the telescopic sight that saved his life. He’d never know why the enemy soldier decided to use the scope to put him in his sights, but it slowed him down. It gave Murphy a tiny window of opportunity, a mere split second, but in war windows of opportunity were a gift a soldier had to grab and hold onto.

  As he ran, he’d reloaded a fresh stripper clip in the Springfield, five bullets, and he squeezed them off in little more than a second. The third bullet tore into the shooter’s arm, forcing him to recoil in pain and drop the rifle. The fourth bullet tore into his chest, and the fifth drilled into his helmet. Murphy reached the body to check he was dead, just in case. There was no need. His final bullet had entered his steel helmet and drilled into his head. Blood and brain matter were oozing onto the ground and soaking into the earth.

  He checked the hole to make sure there were no surprises waiting inside, but all he saw were a canteen, a mess tin, and several spare magazines for the rifle.

  He looked around as Lawson approached. Clemence was climbing after him. The British officer glanced down at the body and nodded slowly. “Another Nazi who refused to give up.”

  “He has now.” He grinned, “Why do they do it? Do they believe that shit Hitler rants about secret weapons as if anything could save the Nazis from total defeat?”

  The Colonel was only half listening. He’d bent to pick up the sniper rifle, and he looked closely at it. “This isn’t a German weapon.” He handed it to Murphy, “What do you think? You worked in a gun store before the war.”

  He took it from him and needed no more than a glance to identify it. “It’s a Moisin Nagant. Russian, 7.62 mm.” He shrugged, “He probably picked it up on the Eastern Front. I just recalled that bullet they took out of my shoulder. Same caliber. It must’ve been this guy who shot me.”

  Lawson took the rifle back, examined it again, and bent to look at the body. “There could be another explanation. He could be a Russian?”

  “Fighting for the Germans?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Murphy didn’t buy it. Clemence stood next to him, looking at his shoulder. “You’ve opened the wound. It’s bleeding badly.”

  He hadn’t noticed, but he looked down and examined his bloody combat jacket. “I’ll get it checked when we get back.” He looked at Lawson, who was pacing around, his gaze focused on the ground. “Have you seen what you need to see?”

  “Not quite.” He returned to the body and rummaged through the pockets of the dead man’s tunic. Loosened his clothing and patted him down. When he stood up, he was lost in thought, “We need to get back, right away.”

  “Something’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. Could be.”

  They returned to the jeep and drove back to Divisional HQ. Lawson didn’t speak all the way, and when they arrived, he rushed straight to the radio room. Clemence propelled Murphy to the first-aid tent and stayed with him to make sure they attended to his wound. He didn’t see the Brit Colonel for the rest of that day, and it wasn’t until the following morning as the Division was preparing to move out that he appeared.

  He wasn’t alone. He was with another man, a U.S. Army infantry captain, although he looked older. He wore no hat, and his head showed a few wispy strands of hair, making him look more like an academic. He even smoked a pipe, just like a lecturer at some Ivy League university. His uniform looked creased and unpressed, but the strange thing was he didn’t carry a weapon.

  Even stranger was when Lawson introduced him. “This is Captain Harold Burgess. He’s interested in that soldier you shot. He needs our help.”

  Burgess offered a hand. Murphy took it and gave him his name. “What kind of help, Captain?”

  Burgess looked at the Colonel. He spoke, and his accent was upper-class English. “How much can I tell him, Cuthbert?”

  “You know the rules. Just the bare outline, nothing more.” He looked at Murphy. “As you may have guessed, Captain Burgess is a Brit and an expert in his field.”

  “What’s his field?”

  “It’s classified. Our people seconded him to the United States Army to work on a special project, searching for Nazi scientists and getting them into Allied custody before the Russians reach them. They want one man in particular. He’s been developing a new type of weapon, and we need to know what that weapon is, and where he is.”

  Murphy was puzzled. “What’re you saying? Is this the man we were told to look out for? Richter?”

  “Yes, and we think he could be in Nordhausen, where we believe they’ve established a laboratory deep underground. He has to investigate this, and he’ll need soldiers to go with him to keep him alive.”

  Burgess interrupted. “I must check out this facility at Nordhausen before it’s too late. This man we’re looking for, he could be there. He’s a world-renowned physicist, who also happens to be a senior SS officer.”

  “I think I’ve seen him. A senior SS officer heading away from Nordhausen, deeper into the Harz Mountains.”

  Burgess shook his head. “It’s unlikely, nobody goes that way. This guy is in the vicinity of Nordhausen, where we believe he recently transferred to work on a special project. We’re mighty anxious to locate him before he disappears, or the Russians grab him. Eisenhower’s headquarters has cleared it with Division, so we need to leave right away.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “I’ll come along,” Lawson added, “This is a combined British and American operation, and we’ve already sent many experts like Captain Burgess to work on the project in the States.”

  “What kind of a project?”

  Once again, Burgess interrupted. “The secret kind, Lieutenant. That’s all you need to know. I suggest you get your men ready to leave.”

  He found Rooker and gave him the order. They were down to fifteen men after the most recent casualties, and the Sergeant wasn’t happy about taking on another mission when the platoon was at half-strength. Murphy tried to reassure him.

  “We’re just looking for some German scientist, just one man. It could even be that bigshot Nazi we saw on top of the hill. We’re not likely to get into a firefight.”

  Kelly was nearby, and he heard what he said. “If a bigshot Nazi gets into my sights, it’ll be a pleasure to put him down.”

  “Not this time, Kelly. We take him alive. That’s the order.”

  “He’s SS, and they still want to take him alive? Are they serious?”

  “Deadly serious.”

  “Fuck.”

  An hour later they set out on foot. Lawson made it clear they were to take a great deal of care to keep Burgess safe, so the survivors of the platoon bunched up around him. Murphy made each man aware their function was to act as a bodyguard, short of stopping a bullet for him. He couldn’t help but speculate about the Captain’s importance, and why they valued him so highly. But he put it out of his mind. It wasn’t for him to reason why. How did the saying go? It was up to them to ‘do or die.’

  Nordhausen was ten miles east, and he pushed them along at a fast pace. Minutes before the hour struck twelve, they entered the town and viewed a scene of total devastation. Bombers had struck day and night, reducing the once picturesque town into rubble. They kept a wary eye open for trouble. Nazi diehard fanatics frequently appeared from nowhere to pop off a few shots before disappearing into the rubble-strewn streets of towns they’d previously passed through as they fought their way into Germany.

  This time they made the center of the town without encountering any problems. Nobody was around, no big surprise. Who the hell would want to stay in a place like this? Attacked night and day by heavy bombers, it seemed impossible for anybody to survive. Yet one man had. He darted out from beneath a pile of broken masonry and burned timbers that’d once been a substantial house.

  They spotted the movement, and every man brought up his rifle until Murphy ordered them to hold their fire. He was a civilian and in a bad way. Thin, so thin his ragged clothing hung on him like a scarecrow. He ran toward them, holding his hands in the air, shouting, “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot!”

  They didn’t shoot, and he got closer. “Thank God you’ve come. I thought you were the Nazis.” He spoke English with a strong German accent.

  “It’s okay, Mister, we’re the good guys. U.S. Rangers.”

  “God be thanked. I need to get away from here before they find me.”

  “Before who finds you?”

  He gabbled out his story, gasping for breath after every few words. He was exhausted, half dead. Even the effort of talking exhausted him. “My name is Konrad Neuberg, Professor Konrad Neuberg. I’ve been a prisoner, working in an underground laboratory outside Nordhausen.”

  “You’re safe now. There’re no Germans in our rear, so you can walk west until you reach our lines. They’ll help you.”

  “No, no, you don’t understand. It is I who can help you.”

  “I’m sure you can, but right now we don’t have an opening for a guy like you. With all due respect,” he added. He’d almost said ‘grandpa’ but didn’t want to insult the poor guy. He’d had a bad time and probably looked twenty or thirty years older than his real age, “I’m sorry, Sir, but we don’t have any shortage of soldiers, so I suggest you start walking. You’re quite safe. Like I said, they’ve gone.”

  “No!” He became agitated, waving his hands in the air, and Murphy wondered if he’d gone off his head. It wouldn’t be a surprise after what he’d undoubtedly suffered.

  “We’ve been developing a new weapon, although we had serious problems. I calculated how to overcome those problems but did not disclose the results. Before we carried out the final assembly, I hid my notes, so it continued to fail. Except Richter found them, and he’s taken them.”

  Burgess interrupted. “Richter? What do you know about him?”

  “He recently arrived to take charge of the project. Like I said, he took my notes. All my work is lost. He has everything. You must find him.”

  “Where is he? Inside Nordhausen?”

  “Yes. No! He left, and I overheard him say he was heading for our mirror facility. It’s well hidden in the south of the Harz Mountains. If you have a map, I can…”

  “Don’t say another word!” Burgess growled. He looked at Murphy. “I’ll take charge of the prisoner from here on in. This information is classified. Professor Neuberg, stay with me and don’t say anything further. Lieutenant Murphy, it’s essential you conduct a detailed search of the underground facility at Nordhausen, just in case this guy is still hiding there.”

  Neuberg couldn’t hide his frustration. “But he’s…”

  “That’s enough! Stay with me, and keep your mouth shut. You’re now a prisoner of the United States Army, and you’ll do what I say.”

  The Rangers looked at each other in surprise. Why was Burgess playing hardball? It didn’t make any sense. They didn’t get time to think it over. The street suddenly echoed to the chatter of automatic fire, and they dived for cover. But not before a Ranger went down, and Murphy cursed at losing yet another man. The war couldn’t last much longer, and all these men wanted was to go home. One more man wouldn’t be going home.

  “Crockett! The machine gun.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Kelly threw himself down next to the Lieutenant. “What the hell’s going on? For Christ’s sake, don’t the mothers know they’re beaten?”

  He didn’t reply, there was no need. They didn’t know they were beaten. Or maybe they knew something he didn’t. The incoming fire chewed around where they’d thrown themselves down, and all they could do was keep their heads down. This wasn’t a normal rearguard or defensive action. They had to know they couldn’t hold off the Allies for longer than a few hours. This was something else. It smacked of… desperation. But why? What for?

  Rooker didn’t need him to give an order. He was already preparing to flank them. Sending a half-dozen men out to the left, another half-dozen to the right, while Crockett blazed away with the Browning, Lucas helping with the loading. It wouldn’t be enough. He estimated they were facing at least a score of enemy soldiers, and he counted four machine guns shooting at them, their distinctive sound like ripping cloth identifying them as Mauser MG-42s. Belt-fed and hurling out a continuous stream of bullets at the incredible rate of twelve hundred per minute.

  He watched Rooker lead the party on the left into cover, but he’d need several minutes before he was in position. He suspected the enemy was aware of the danger, and they’d be waiting for them. Omar Gordon was nearby, and he called him over.

  “The Sarge needs more time, and we’re all that’s left.” He pointed to a dark shadow on the ground that looked like it’d been the entrance to a basement before the USAF paid it a visit, “We’ll head over there. It’ll get us closer to the enemy, and when they see us moving, it’ll distract them. Give our guys a bit more time.”

  The South African didn’t look happy. He was no coward and had proved himself time and again to be a warrior, but he wasn’t happy about throwing his life away for no good reason. “You sure about this, Lt? The moment we show ourselves, they’ll chew us into little pieces.”

  “No, they won’t. A second before we move out, we’ll each lob a grenade. I know, I know, the range is too long, but it’ll make them duck. Give us a few seconds to get over there.”

  He nodded, unhooked a grenade from his webbing, pulled the pin and held down the lever. “Ready when you are.”

  Murphy could swear he heard him say under his breath, ‘To commit suicide.’ But he couldn’t be sure. “Now!”

  They both tossed the grenades, and they barely made it halfway to the enemy. They weren’t wasted. Sure, they made them duck, but they did more. Threw up clouds of thick dust, like a smokescreen. He was on his feet, racing toward the basement entrance, and he heard Gordon’s heavy boots pounding along behind him. They were four yards away when a machine gunner spotted them. Bullets lashed past them, but the gunner failed to take proper aim. Hopefully, the dust kicked up by the grenades had got into his eyes. They dived down the rubble-strewn concrete steps just as the machine gunner corrected and sprayed lead where they’d been a split second before.

  Gordon landed badly, which knocked the breath out of his body. It took him several seconds to fully recover, but Murphy had landed like a cat. Sheets of lead rained down over them where they huddled on the basement steps. He couldn’t pop his head out to get a proper aim. But they had to reply to the gunfire in case they had ideas about rushing them. He held the MP-40 above his head, pointed the muzzle in the general direction of the enemy, and emptied a full magazine. He didn’t expect to hit anything, but if he could keep their heads down for a few seconds more, it would give Rooker a chance to hit them.

  The Sarge took that chance. One moment, concentrated enemy fire hammered around them, and the next, the Rangers opened fire. They’d maneuvered themselves into a good position, close to the enemy, and he heard Rooker’s distinctive shout, “Charge!”

  They charged, shouting bloodcurdling war cries, and the Krauts never stood a chance. Enemy soldiers screamed as they went down beneath the Rangers’ furious attack. Three threw up their hands in surrender, others went down fighting, and two tried to slip away into the ruins. They didn’t make it.

  The shooting stopped and he and Gordon raced out to inspect the carnage. More than a dozen enemy soldiers lay dead, almost as many wounded, and the three who’d surrendered looked like they’d like to have been someplace else.

  Lawson joined them. “That was well done, very well done, but why were they here? Why defend a pile of bombed-out rubble?”

  Neuberg approached with Burgess right behind him, keeping him covered with his pistol. “They weren’t defending a pile of rubble. They were defending the road that leads to the underground weapons facility. This place is where they build the V2 rockets. And the other thing...”

  Burgess grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back. “They don’t need to know about the other thing. Remember what I told you back there, and keep your mouth shut. Not another word.” The German went silent, and the Captain forced a half smile. “It’s not up to me. It’s orders from London and Washington.”

  Lawson nodded. “He’s correct. The project Captain Burgess is involved in is high priority. His orders come down directly from the top. I’m talking the absolute top.” He paused, “All I can tell you is that both sides, us and the Germans, are working toward the same end. We need to get there first.”

  Murphy thought again about the rumors of Adolf Hitler’s secret weapons. Rumors that most thinking people dismissed out of hand, but something sure was going on. Something above his pay grade, so he didn’t ask questions. Instead, he walked toward one of the captured soldiers and took him to one side. “You speak English?”