“Exekutionskommando . . . Achtung!” The squad snapped to attention. “Bereiten Sie.!” The squad came to port arms. “Beladen Sie!” With crack precision they charged their weapons. “Aufzielen Sie!” Rifle butts came to shoulders, and muzzles steadied on the chest of Ben Raines. “Schiessen Sie los!”

  Thirteen hammers struck thirteen bolts and drove thirteen firing pins forward on empty chambers. To his immediate shame, relief flooded through Ben Raines. He gulped a cool draft of early morning desert air and let it stream out through his nose. It was then that he heard the shrill, derisive laughter of the child-storm troopers and saw the grinning faces of their adult comrades. To one side, a battery of microphones stood before a slender podium. Volmer walked briskly to them, cameras panning to follow his progress.

  “Rebel cowards. What you have witnessed was a dress rehearsal for the execution of Ben Raines. This has been done, and filmed, so that every one of you hopelessly misled Rebels will know for sure what is in store for Ben Raines. His execution awaits only the victorious arrival of Führer Hoffman.”

  Well, the arrogant bastard has given himself a new title, Ben observed.

  Twenty people had gathered in the tightly closeted tent. Sixteen came from the elite pathfinders of Dan Gray’s command. The other four were the members of Ben Raines’s headquarters team. Only low-intensity red light illuminated the interior of the tent, to preserve the occupants’ night vision. The double-flap arrangement of the light baffle swung wide and admitted a tall rock-jawed young man with a grim expression.

  “All right, listen up, people,” Buddy Raines began. “I’ll keep this short and sweet. This is your op order. We all know the situation: Elements of the American Nazi SS Leibstandarte Hoffman are holding General Ben Raines captive in or around the town of Villa Ahumada, Chihuahua, Mexico. Sub One: enemy forces consist of an estimated light battalion, with the remainder of Peter Volmer’s Werewolf company, estimated strength fifty combat trained boys aged ten to fifteen. Sub Two: friendly forces are what you see. We will be augmented by a rapid-deployment team from R Batt.” Buddy paused to study the intent faces before him. He smiled briefly and nodded.

  “The mission is to go in and get General Raines out. Ah — and to kill as many Nazis as we can. Execution, Sub One: we will form into three 7-man teams. I command Team Alpha; Hank Evans has Bravo; Jersey, you have Charlie. We will be inserted by HALO at 2315 hours tonight. Two: uniform and equipment standard night ops. Challenge for ID will be ‘Tri-States,’ answered by ‘Freedom.’ Every team member will carry a short-range, hand-held radio. During approach to the final objective, we’ll use our standard click code to indicate movement. Three: issue weapons with eight spare magazines, supplemented by four frag grenades and two gas for all, with the following exception. A suppressed submachine gun will be carried by every third trooper. Pathfinder team leader will carry a homing beacon to be turned on when General Raines is located. Four: each team member will carry iron rations and water for two days. Resupply will be from the RDT.” Buddy paused again, stepped to a small field desk beside a blackboard that had a list of names posted and a large aerial map of the area around Villa Ahumada. He drank from a metal cup of water and picked up a pointer.

  “I am in overall command. On the ground, my team will be directed by Lieutenant Bob Simpson. Lieutenant Evans has his team. Jersey, hers.”

  “Hey, Colonel Raines, I ain’t no officer. How come I’m leadin’ a team?” Jersey asked, brow lined with concern.

  “Because you are good. The best. Besides, it’s your team that has to go in and take General Raines away from them. Now, team sergeants will direct fire against the objective. All right, let’s go over the time schedule. I know you got it in the warning order, but there’s no time for a rehearsal of this. We depart here at 2130 hours, climb to thirty thousand, and proceed south to the DZ outside Villa Ahumada. The jump is on for 2315. Police up the DZ and reach the Rally Point by 2325. We proceed overland to the initial objective. Checkpoints have been set” — his pointer tapped the map — “every twenty minutes along the route of march. We should be in Villa Ahumada at 0320 hours. We neutralize any enemy there. I’ve allowed thirty minutes for that. Try to keep one for interrogation. Intel indicates the best estimate for the general’s location is this large hacienda ten miles outside the village. If this is verified, that becomes our primary objective. We will proceed there, to arrive at 0505 hours. Deployment time five minutes. Then we hit the place half an hour before sunrise, which is at 0617 tomorrow. Jersey’s team takes out guards around General Raines and di-dis out of there. Cover fire for the initial exfiltration will come from your team, Hank. We take a vehicle if possible and head due north with all possible speed to link up with the RDT from R Batt.

  “Okay,” Buddy went on after a glance at his watch. “Since time is short, we’ll go right into the jump briefing. There will be two passes over the DZ. Only two. First out is Nelson, our pathfinder. He will have a red and green strobe with him to mark the DZ. Red, of course, is for a wave-off. On the second pass, the sticks will unass the bird in reverse order. I’ll be first out the door; Jersey, you’ll be last.”

  “Why me? Why me? You know I hate to jump.”

  Buddy gave her a smile. “Don’t worry, this is going to bejumpmastered by Sergeant Quinlan. He’ll see you get out on time. Chute up at 2100, then equipment check. GP bags for all loose gear. Make sure you secure your oxygen bottles, we’ll be breathing it for the first twenty thousand feet. Once on the ground, rigger-roll and police your area, then report to the RP. We’ll bury the chutes there and move out. Questions?”

  Several came, as to equipment details, fire control, and the usual on altimeter setting for the ADGs. Buddy was startled to learn he had forgotten that important item. The automatic-deployment gear was a HALO jumper’s lifeline. Without it, he had to guess on when to deploy his parachute, and at night that could be suicide. At the last, Cooper put up his hand.

  “Yes, Cooper?”

  “I was wonderin’. What’s the name of this town we’re headed for? In English, I mean.”

  “It means Smoked Village,” Jersey informed him. “An’ we’re gonna smoke it, all right, along with every Nazi scumbag around,” she added with a bit of her former fiery spirit.

  With a light, though deft, touch, the pilot put in a little left rudder and rotated the wheel so that the Argentine Blanca slipped left a little to line up with the center of the runway. A single landing light bored a hole in the night over Villa Ahumada. How he longed for the technology of his homeland. There they had ILS glide slopes and all the proper equipment for effortless landings in nearly any conditions. Here he had to rely on visual contact and marginal presence of inner marker beacons. To his surprise, the instrument panel IMB light flickered on and a beeping pulse came from the speaker over his ear. Half mile to the end of the runway.

  Seated behind him, Führer Jesus Diguez Mendoza Hoffman gnawed on his lower lip and laced white-knuckled fingers around his drawn-up knees. He hated flying. It seemed such an unnatural act. He would go immediately to the hacienda and confront his field marshal. Volmer had better have the right answers. The pilot cut back the throttle and the little plane sank to one hundred feet. Hoffman swallowed hard and closed his eyes.

  Tires squeaked at contact with the runway, and the little high-wing aircraft sped along the tarmac toward where a “Follow Me” truck lighted the way to the proper taxiway and the ramp beyond. Führer Hoffman began to relax. He even opened his eyes.

  A mistake, he quickly discovered. In the near-complete darkness, he had no idea where they were going or why. He felt even more disoriented than in the air. Without warning, the pilot braked and cut the engine. The prop spun to a sudden stop.

  Outside, a Kugelwagen waited to transport the Führer to the hacienda. Salutes were given all around and Hoffman walked stiffly to the open door. “Ah, Captain Elbe, am I right?” he greeted the officer standing stiffly to attention at the side of the vehicle.

  “Yes, mein Führer. I’m honored that you remembered.”

  “When you visited Fuhrer Headquarters with Field Marshal Volmer I was impressed by your dedication to the Party and this campaign against the Rebels,” Führer Hoffman flattered the young captain. “Now, take me to see General Ben Raines.”

  Jersey sat in the soft red light and chewed her nails. The rumble of jet engines pushed the Gulfstream upward toward an assigned altitude of thirty thousand feet. She felt an itch in her armpits and wanted furiously to scratch. Although she had gone just before chuting up, her bladder demanded attention.

  “God, I hate this,” she said to Beth, beside her.

  “Truth to tell, so do I. I’ll never understand why General Raines insisted we all take airborne training.”

  “Because sometimes he likes to jump in with Colonel West’s mercs,” Jersey patiently told her, although certain they had had this conversation a dozen times before.

  “I wish he would stay on the ground, in the rear, where it’s safe.”

  “There’s a lot of people with a lot more rank than you who wish the same,” Jersey advised. “I think I’m gonna try to get some Z’s.” That’s it, she told herself, sleep through it.

  All too soon, the light above the doorway to the flight deck flashed from red to yellow, then green. The door opened and Nelson, the pathfinder, went out. The Gulfstream spooled up to cruise speed and continued to the south. Three minutes later it started back. Sergeant Quinlan, secured on a tether, hung partway out the door and peered at the ground through light-gathering binoculars. At last he found what he sought and swung back inside. He spoke into the boom mike and the light flashed yellow.

  “Get readyyyy! . . . Stand up! . . . Check your equipment!” This would not be a static-line jump, Jersey frightfully recalled for the twelfth time. “Sound off for equipment check.” The count rippled down the sticks from rear to front. “Adjust oxygen masks and check your buddy.”

  Jersey tested the flow valve of Beth’s O-bottle and tapped her on the right shoulder. Hers would be checked by Quinlan when she reached the door. Her gut muscles tensed as the burly jumpmaster sergeant opened his mouth to shout at them again.

  “Stand in the door!” The sticks shuffled forward from front and rear of the Gulfstream. Suddenly the throttles cut back and the engines spooled down to a whisper. “Go! Go — go — go — go . . .”

  And then it was Jersey’s turn. She got a quick tap on the shoulder and then on the butt. “Go.”

  The solid platform of the floor of the jet disappeared and Jersey closed herself to a compact ball to drop the first twenty thousand feet. Then she would spread-eagle and stabilize for the long ride down another nine thousand four hundred. At six hundred feet AGL, her chute would automatically deploy. At least they said it would.

  All of this raced through her mind in the brief second before she yelled into her face-covering oxygen mask, “What am I doing heeeeerre!”

  Fifteen

  By straining on tiptoe, Ben Raines could marginally see out of the tiny slit that passed for a window in his cell. His view was of the inner courtyard. He saw a solitary, small figure sitting alone on a stone bench. Moonlight from a thin crescent high above gave a faerie glow to straw-white hair. For all his years in combat, Ben retained excellent hearing. He thought he detected soft sobs coming from the silhouetted boy. The shoulders rose and settled in time with the thin sound.

  After a moment, Ben realized who this had to be. “Jimmy,” he whispered forcefully. “Jimmy Riggs. Come over here.”

  Electrified, the boy sat rigidly upright. “Who? Who is that?”

  “It’s General Ben, Jimmy. Come over here.”

  “N-no. I c-can’t ever see you again,” Heinz/Jimmy stammered, uncomfortable at this confrontation.

  “Why not? You were at the phony execution yesterday.”

  “That’s different. I can’t see you because you are a — a bad influence.”

  Surprise elevated one of Ben’s eyebrows. What had brought that on? “What do you mean by that?”

  Reluctantly, Heinz/Jimmy rose and padded barefoot over to the wall that contained Ben’s cell. He wore summer pajamas, with short sleeves and legs. Hesitantly he knelt down and peered into Ben’s eyes. “I — I got to thinking about what you said. So I told Pet — Field Marshal Volmer that I didn’t want that any more. That you had said it was per — perverse. He got mad and slapped me and told me I was not to visit your cell anymore. Then he — we — anyway. An’ — an’ he demoted me.” Tears ran down Jimmy’s cheeks. “The other kids don’t like me any more. I’m — all alone. Is it true everything about the Nazis is bad?”

  “I believe it to be, Jimmy.”

  “Wh-why did my folks want me to be one?” came his plaintive query.

  “I can’t answer that. I do know that it is not too late for you. You can change. We have schools in Rebel-held country. They teach the truth and you are free to say what you believe. You can grow up normal and happy.”

  “But they’re gonna kill you when the Führer gets here.”

  “When is that, Jimmy?”

  “Sometime tonight, I think. Field Marshal Hoffman ordered the firing squad for tomorrow morning at sunrise.”

  “Would you, could you, help me get away?” Ben pressed rather too quickly.

  “Oh, General Ben, I would if — but it’s not possible. The guards and all, and I don’t have the key to your cell anymore.”

  “Think of something, Jimmy. Think hard. We have until tomorrow morning.”

  A sudden flurry of action made Jimmy jump like a frightened animal. Lights began to come on throughout the hacienda and harsh voices shouted orders. “It’s the Führer. I’ve gotta go. But I’ll be back, General Ben. I promise.”

  Without any more warning than the sudden appearance of the darker outline of hills against the blackness of night, the ground leapt up and slapped the soles of Jersey’s boots.

  “Shit!” she grumbled to herself as she let go at the knees, swiveled hips, and dropped into a regulation PLF. So much for standing landings at night.

  Quickly Jersey came to her feet from the parachute-landing fall, ran around the suspension lines, and collapsed her chute. A twist and slap on the quick-release box and she was free of her harness. Thank God she had remembered to guesstimate when to release her GP bag and let it depend below her. With that on one leg, she would have been a case for splints and a cast.

  Quietly she rigger-rolled her parachute and carried it in a bundle against her chest while she walked down the tie-off line for the missing general purpose carrier. She found it twenty feet away. A check of the compass on her right wrist and she oriented herself toward the proper edge of the drop zone and headed for the rally point.

  “What kept you?” Buddy’s voice teased from the stygian shadows.

  “I stopped off for high tea with the Queen of England,” Jersey quipped back.

  “Okay. Get that chute in the hole with the others and let’s move out.”

  Separated by a quarter-mile, the three teams advanced in parallel lines, zigging and zagging periodically to comply with the indicated locations of their checkpoints and to thwart observation. They covered four times the distance to Villa Ahumada that way. At least, Jersey thought grumpily, they didn’t have to do it on tiptoe to fool anti-infiltration sensors.

  They reached the village on time for all the caution. “Hank, make a quick recee of the vil and see if there’s any friendlies in there,” Buddy Raines whispered into the mike of his hand-held radio.

  Hank Evans grinned, a flash of white in the waning moonlight. “That’s why we took these gas canisters, eh?”

  “Roger that. What we don’t need is a firefight to advertise our presence. You might verify the prevailing wind direction also,” Buddy suggested.

  Evans and his team melted into the darkness. Buddy waited for a long count, then bumped Jersey. “Be ready to move to the upwind side of this burg.”

  “Roger, Rat. We’re gonna do the Big Sleep number on them, right?”

  “You got that right. Rat out.”

  Twenty tense minutes passed for the Rebels while Evans’s team did a quick check of the village for any friendly locals. When the sweep had been completed, he keyed his mike and spoke tersely. “It’s clean. Southwest.”

  “Roger. From here on, no voice communications. Rat out.”

  All three teams had come to within a hundred yards of Villa Ahumada. They took a full half hour to move into position in the southwest quadrant of the village. When each Rebel trooper had reached a suitable spot, the team leaders reported by breaking the carrier wave of their transmitters with a single click of the talk button. Three seconds later, two more clicks.

  Buddy Raines reached for his gas mask and fitted it into place, making sure to check the tightness of the edge around his forehead and chin. Then he took a small syrette from the pocket of his utilities and snapped off the protective cover of the needle.

  He plunged it into his exposed forearm and squeezed out the contents. Only then did he free one of the two gas grenades on his harness, untape the safety handle, and pull the pin. In his mind he saw the other troopers doing the same. He drew a long, steady, deep breath and exhaled sharply. This shit was so damn scary.

  With a soft, explosive pop, the grenade of nerve gas detonated and began to spew its invisible contents out onto the steady breeze blowing into Villa Ahumada. Thirty minutes, Buddy Raines thought, his gut tightening. It would be safe for them to go into town then. Technically they were free to do so now, what with the antidote injected and their masks. But he always considered it wise to let the lethal fumes dissipate before playing loose and personal with an exposed area.

  At the indicated time, Buddy keyed his mike once, waited five seconds, and hit three more. The teams advanced into a deathly silent Villa Ahumada. At the edge of town, Buddy found the duty watch on a road barrier sprawled in death. Their features were contorted horribly and they had completely voided themselves. He waved an arm to advance.