On Desperate Ground (49 page)

* * *

“Captain, we have an idea to propose,” Dieter said.
 

“I’ll take anything you’ve got right now,” said Mack.

“
Hauptmann
Benedikt proposes that he and your Lieutenant attempt jointly to stop the battle.”

“How the hell can they do that from up here?”

“Benedikt has a motorcycle. If he and an American go together, they might be able to order a halt to the fighting. On foot, it would take too long. With the BMW, they might stand a chance.”

“Jesus, Dieter, that’s a swell idea. Ride a motorcycle in between a few hundred men trying to kill each other with automatic weapons.” Mack shook his head.

“Let’s do it.”

Everyone looked up in surprise at Rose. By Rose’s tone, the Germans needed no translation. Benedikt rose and said “
Gut, kommen Sie hier.
”
 

“Wait a minute!” Mack ordered. Both men stopped. He walked over to Benedikt’s StuG 43 assault weapon. He picked it up and looked at Rose. “What do you think?”

Rose looked at Benedikt. “As long as he’s driving he can’t shoot me. Sure.”
 

Mack tossed Benedikt the weapon and he slung it over his head and arm. Benedikt and Rose went off without a word between them, to the BMW parked behind a row of boulders. Benedikt kick-started the motorcycle and it roared into life. Rose slung his Springfield rifle on his back, pulling out his grease gun and holding it in one hand. As he straddled the back of the BMW, Benedikt turned and raised a quizzical eyebrow at his new-found ally.
 

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Rose said over the rumble of the engine. He pointed his finger at the small submachine gun. “Faust.”

“
Ja, sehr gut
,” Benedikt said laughing. He looked back at the American and used one of his few words of English. “Cowboy,
Ja
?”

“Yeah, I’m the lone fuckin’ ranger, Benny. Let’s ride.”

Benedikt accelerated, his rear tire spraying dirt and rocks behind them. Rose gripped onto his belt with one hand and kept the grease gun at the ready with the other, thinking about what a damned crazy war this had turned out to be.

* * *

Faust’s Puma scout car raced over the meadows toward the hill, three of his men still clinging to the top. Small arms fire continued as the Americans were slowly but steadily pushed back. Satisfied that the battle was going well, Faust focused on the hill looming ahead.
 

The driver slowed to cross a small stream, and once up the sloping bank he gained speed on the dirt road leading to the top of the hill. Faust signaled him to stop, getting out and checking the battle one more time through his binoculars. Americans were falling back. Perfect. He ordered the driver to continue. The road banked up as the meadow turned into a rocky field at the base of the hill. As they were about to begin their ascent, a motorcycle roared down the hill past them.

“Turn around!” Faust commanded. The driver threw the scout car into reverse and floored the accelerator. Faust had caught a glimpse of olive drab as the motorcycle sped by, and recognized the man driving it as Benedikt. As they gained on the motorcycle, Faust could tell it was an American on the back. The rider turned, brought up his arm and sprayed the scout car with submachine gun fire. The bullets hit home but
pinged
harmlessly off the armored plate. One of the men riding on top of the vehicle yelled and rolled off.
 

“Fire!” shouted Faust. The machine gun atop the Puma began firing, bullets digging up the road all around the motorcycle. Benedikt saw they were gaining on him and would have a clear shot within seconds. He swerved to the left, going off road and darting among rocks for cover. He darted around a large boulder and came back at the scout car head on, ducking his head and pulling to the left so the motorcycle could pass close by the passenger side of the car. The gunner was thrown off by this quick maneuver and his fire went high.
 

Rose understood immediately what Benedikt intended. As they drew close he slowed as Rose raised his grease gun again and emptied a long burst into the window ports, hoping to nail Faust.
 

* * *

Faust saw them coming and drew his pistol, about to thrust his arm out and add his fire to the machine gunner’s. Then he realized Benedikt was targeting him. He ducked down in his seat, keeping the armor plate between his body and the motorcycle. The burst of fire, when it came, caught the driver in the head and chest, and the bullets ricocheted around inside, cutting into the legs of the gunner in his turret, another slicing through Faust’s left arm. The vehicle lurched to a halt as the remaining men jumped and ran off as Rose sprayed a final burst at the rear of the scout car.
 

Benedikt braked violently and spun the BMW around as Rose rammed a full clip into the grease gun and they both waited, watching the halted car, unsure if anyone was left alive inside. Benedikt turned to Rose and shrugged. Rose gestured for him to go forward, and he nodded in agreement.
 

* * *

Faust hardly noticed the pain in his arm. He heard the motorcycle coming again, and looked back at the gunner, who was grimacing in pain.

“Fire at them, you idiot!” Faust pointed his Walther at the man, “Kill them now or I’ll finish you off!”

The gunner was white-faced from shock and loss of blood, but the pistol aimed at him instantly cleared his mind. He swiveled the gun to point at the motorcycle speeding towards them and pulled the trigger.

Benedikt and Rose saw the movement of the gun at the same moment. This time the gunner knew they were going to come in close, and would not be fooled again. Rose fired straight ahead, peppering the vehicle, in hopes of distracting the gunner’s aim. Benedikt swerved right, seeking shelter in the boulder field again. He opened the throttle and jumped the bike, heavy with its extra load, over a low jumble of rocks. The machine gun fire followed him, getting closer as he raced for the cover of a large boulder. He swerved left and right in the rock-strewn field, Rose holding on and leaning in with him at every turn, but the chattering machine gun caught up with them. The bullets came in low, ripping into the rear wheel. The BMW collapsed as the tire was shot out from under them, the machine sliding forward and smashing into the boulder they had raced for so desperately. Benedikt and Rose were thrown from the bike, hitting the boulder, and falling to the hard ground. The bike burned as leaking gas hit the hot metal of the exhaust.

Benedikt tasted blood in his mouth, his jaw felt broken, and there was a terrible pounding in his head. He saw Faust in the distance and tried to lift his weapon, only to find that his arm was broken. He felt dizzy as the ground seemed to tilt up and swirl around him. He looked for Rose, and saw him crawling to the assault rifle. He was dragging one leg, broken at the ankle, his face contorted in pain. He reached the stock of the weapon, pulled it to him and tried to sit up. He turned his fractured leg as he tried to get up. Benedikt heard Rose gasp in astonished pain, as he faded into unconsciousness himself.

Faust opened the door of the scout car and looked over at the two men and the burning motorcycle. Going to the driver’s door, he pulled the dead driver out and got in. The gunner was dead too, his blood thick on the floor of the car. Faust drove off, up the hill, ignoring the last few wild, distant shots from the American. He knew those two would present no further trouble.

Faust drove up the hill, enraged, the coppery smell of blood thick around him. The instrument panel and windshield were sprayed with a fine pink mist. Faust’s arm and hand were sticky with his own blood and his eyes seemed to be covered with light red flecks of blood. He looked around at the horror, not understanding if it was real. Then he laughed, long and hard, as he downshifted and accelerated around a hairpin turn. So be it! Nothing could stop him now; nothing could wash away the blood he would spill.
 

Perfect
.

* * *

Hans von Schierke felt the lifeblood leaving his body. He cursed himself for his stupid mistake, letting his guard down for a single moment. He wondered why Faust didn’t finish him off after one shot. He didn’t know that Faust had been certain he had killed him with a single shot to the heart. Faust’s aim had been slightly off , and the bullet hit Hans’ shoulder blade and veered downwards, missing his heart but tearing through a lung before exiting his chest. Red froth bubbled out of his mouth with every brutally painful breath. As he lay on the floor, soaked in his own blood, Hans waited to die. Then it occurred to him that he could move, although his body seemed to weigh an enormous amount. He tried to lift himself up with his left arm, but the pain was too great. Slowly, he turned onto his right side and got himself up on one knee. He had to steady himself as the pain wracked his chest, almost passing out. Finally, he was up, leaning on the radio table, then falling into the chair. He gasped, and the pain in his chest was like nothing he had ever felt. He keyed the radio.

“Oak Tree,” he whispered. “Come in. Oak Tree…”

* * *

Faust pulled the Puma over before he arrived at the very top of the hill. He made sure his Schmiesser had a fresh clip, then headed up to the summit, off the road, through the rocks and pine scrub.
 

* * *

“What’s that?” asked Mack as faint sounds came from Dieter’s radio. Dieter asked expectantly, “Linden Tree, is that you?” Jost came closer to listen.

“…yes.”

“What happened, what’s wrong?”

“…shot…did you stop…Faust?”
 

Anguish flashed across Dieter’s face, painful to see. He couldn’t bear to tell his friend that they had no way to stop Faust, that they had failed.
 

“How bad is it, Hans?”

“Don’t…worry…”

“Hans, stay with me, we’ll get help to you!”

Dieter handed the receiver to Jost and spoke to Mack, explaining that Faust had discovered Hans talking with them over the radio and shot him.
 

“Damn!” Mack erupted in frustration. “Rosie and Benedikt are probably dead down there, who knows where Kowalski and Mandelbaum are, and that radio unit is getting closer! Shit!”

“We meet again, Captain Mackenzie,” spoke a voice in accented but very good English. Mack turned to look. Surprise and anger stormed over his face.

“Faust, you bastard,” he said through gritted teeth.

Johann Faust stood with his Schmeisser aimed squarely at them. A slow drip of blood splattered on the ground from his left arm, but he gripped the Schmeisser tightly, showing no sign of weakness. Jost and Dieter were kneeling by the radio, in no position to resist.
 

“It has been a long time since Paris, Captain Mackenzie. You should keep better company than these traitors.”

Luther was about fifteen feet away, hunched over his own radio, which he had set up on a flat rock next to a large boulder. He heard but did not see Faust, and was sure Faust couldn’t see him. His Thompson was leaning against the boulder, just out of reach. He thought about grabbing it, but that meant he would move into Faust’s line of vision for a split second before he could bright the weapon to bear. Instead, he quietly pulled his .45 automatic from his holster and prepared to stand up.
 

Faust caught a movement to the right out of the corner of his eye. He saw a man, an American, standing up and raising a pistol towards him. He swiveled slightly and fired a burst, aiming from the hip. Bullets ricocheted off the rock, but not before several found their mark and Luther collapsed backwards, his pistol firing off one wild round into the air. Within seconds Faust again covered the three other men calmly and walked toward them.

“I made a mistake not being sure the good Count was dead,” Faust said. “I will not make another such mistake today. As you can see, everything is going according to our plan,
Hauptmann
Neukirk. Your last thought should be of how much you have contributed to the success of Gambit, instead of what a miserable failure as a traitor you turned out to be.”

“Faust,” Mack said. “Think about this. This isn’t Paris. There’s thousands, tens of thousands of lives at stake. You can’t hope to win, only to prolong the killing.”

“Exactly, my dear Mackenzie, exactly.” said Faust. “It is such a bonus to have you here to see my success, although I regret I cannot let you live to tell about it. And thank you for letting me know a radio unit is making its way up to those poor Americans fighting the Russians for their lives. I was beginning to worry.”

Faust grinned, baring his teeth as he let out a short, harsh laugh. He raised his Schmeisser and aimed it at Mack’s chest. He hesitated, savoring the thought of pulling the trigger, killing his enemies, today, tomorrow, forever.
 

Crack!
 

A single shot rang out. Faust stared at them, a stunned look on his face as his body shifted forward, slightly, as is someone had slapped him on the back. The small group of men looked at each other, frozen in the moment, waiting for the end. Faust’s look changed to one of wide-eyed determination, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

Crack!

 
Faust stumbled forward, the Schmeisser slipping from his grip. He fell to one knee, his mouth gaping open as if trying to form a question. He tried to turn, but collapsed on his back. Beyond him, at the edge of a large tree, Elsa Klein stood with her arm extended and quivering, holding a smoking Luger. Her mouth was open in astonishment, staring at the figure on the ground, his life extinguished by the slight pressure of her trigger finger. She dropped the Luger to the ground, horrified at the feel of the metal and the ease with which she had summoned death from it.