Newkirk dropped the truck's engine into a lower gear as he approached the closed gate. There hadn't been a peep out of LeBeau since they'd left Kinch and Carter down the road; the Frenchman was eager enough to complain, but not foolish enough to do it once the mission was in progress. It was almost hard for him to remember that he wasn't alone in the truck, it was so quiet back there. "Piece of cake..." he muttered to himself, wishing he really believed it. All he had to do was let the Kraut sentry take the truck and drive Louis in his Trojan-horse crate inside. What could possibly go wrong?
The look he got from the sentry on duty outside the wire was far from a welcoming one, accompanied as it was by a rifle barrel pointed in his direction. "Was machen Sie hier?"
The testy Brit somehow suppressed the urge to respond with 'What does it look like I'm doin', boilin' an egg?' "Supply delivery," he answered in his best gruff soldier-voice.
"We are expecting no delivery tonight. Not until tomorrow morning."
"The invoice said it was urgent. I came as quickly as possible."
The sentry gave him another unfriendly look, but turned and called toward the guard house. "Achtung! Klaus!" When nobody appeared fast enough to suit him, he hopped up on the running board, reached over Newkirk and sounded the truck's horn. "Schnell!" Still no response. With a disgusted grunt, he jumped back down to the ground and motioned Newkirk to proceed towards the gate. "Go ahead! Hurry it up!"
A knot had formed in his stomach as he'd approached the gate, and now there was a matching one in his throat. "You... you want me to drive it in there?"
"I don't know where Klaus is and I cannot leave my post! You want to make this delivery tonight, then make it!"
Well, that answered his earlier question about what could possibly go wrong. This wasn't part of the plan; he was supposed to circle back and meet up with Kinch at the rear fence as soon as Carter's grenades took the generator out of commission. Well... they would just have to improvise. Newkirk said a short silent prayer to a god he figured must have given up on him long ago, shifted into gear, and let up on the clutch as the gate swung open.
oo 0 oo
The heel of the German's boot digging into Hogan's neck was probably all that had kept him from passing out: the pain gave him something to focus on, and the grayness that had surrounded him was starting to clear. He remained prostrate on the muddy earth, putting everything he had left into simply taking one ragged breath after another, measuring success only by the fact that he was spitting out a little less water each time. When Gruber entered, he was only dimly aware of it.
"Herr Kommandant, the cliff detail has recovered Gillespie, Matthews, and O'Brien from the net."
"Alive?"
"Jawohl."
Schreiner nodded. "And here we have Hogan, also alive... for the time being."
"A recovery team has been dispatched to locate Dowling and Drake. The pumps have been switched off, but they must wait for the underground shaft to drain."
The etching on the rock wall suddenly flashed in Hogan's semi-conscious mind. GRD '43. Dowling was twenty-six, from Cornwall. He had a wife named Priscilla and a two-year-old son. And now he was probably dead, along with Drake. Drowned like rats in a sewer. Schreiner had known all along. He'd let them come this far on purpose, squandering their time, their energy, their strength... and two lives.
The boot lifted off his throat. "Get up, Hogan!"
He would have loved to. He would have loved to get up, get his hands around Schreiner's windpipe, and show him what not being able to draw a breath felt like. But not a muscle in his body was able to fully obey him at the moment. His left foot ineffectively kicked a few small rocks a couple of inches, then gave up. I can't... concluded the voice in his head. I don't know what they're gonna do about it, but I can't...
Schreiner hesitated only a few seconds before barking out his next order. "Take him to solitary!"
Gruber and the other guard each grabbed Hogan by one arm and lifted him up sharply, which pulled the gray shadow back over his eyes as the blood rushed from his head. He tried one more time to get his feet under him, but failed. He was aware of his heels dragging heavily along the muddy, gritty ground for only a few seconds, then finally lost consciousness.
oo 0 oo
Carter looked on from the cover of the tree line as the truck, with Newkirk for some puzzling reason still at the wheel, passed through the open gate. He was supposed to wait for the guard to drive the truck inside before he tossed the grenades over the fence... well, now what was he supposed to do? If he used the walkie-talkie to check with Kinch, the sound of his voice on the radio might alert any nearby guards to Kinch's position. If he went ahead anyway, with only part of the plan in place, it became a brand-new plan and nobody knew how it was supposed to shake out.
After a few seconds weighing the pros and cons, he made the decision: he'd blow the generator in spite of the deviation, and trust that both LeBeau and Newkirk would be able to make it out through the hole in the fence that was Kinch's part of the operation. He was sure that his eagerness to blow the generator into a mound of hot metal shavings and bottlecaps didn't enter into his decision to proceed. Well... not much. Maybe a little.
Newkirk drove towards the building the sentry had indicated, set the brake, and then put his feet up on the empty seat beside him to wait for LeBeau to let himself out of the crate. A moment later, a detail occurred to him that sent him scrambling over the seat into the back of the truck: he wasn't supposed to be here, and there was one other person he needed to advise of that, sharpish, because in addition to the necessary camera, LeBeau was also armed with a pistol. The sight of a 'German' in the front seat of the truck when he emerged might lead to an embarrassing misunderstanding.
He banged on the top of the box with his fist. "Hey, Louis! It's me! Don't you shoot me or I'll be bloody annoyed!"
The spring latch on the inside of the box worked perfectly: in another few seconds LeBeau had freed himself from the crate and struggled, stiff-kneed, to his feet with Newkirk's assistance. "What are you doing here?"
"Never mind; let's just wait for Carter's diversion, then get them photos and we'll get outta here."
There was only a fingernail sliver of moon, a perfect night for sabotage. Carter sprinted over to the fence, double-checked to ensure that he hadn't been spotted, and removed two standard potato-mashers from his knapsack. Unsophisticated, crude, downright old-fashioned, but they would do the job. With a sure hand that had done it so many times it was almost like tying his shoes, he pulled the two pins one right after the other and lobbed the grenades in a smooth arc over the fence, both of them landing perfectly on target right next to the generator on the other side of the wire. He had about ten seconds to make it back to the tree line. He made it in eight, using the two extra seconds to turn around and admire his handiwork as it erupted.
The first explosion ripped the left side off the generator, and the second ignited the fumes from the fuel gushing from the ruptured tank, shooting rolls of orange flame fifty feet into the air. As usual, Carter couldn't contain a proud grin. Even if the war lasted another ten years, he was sure he'd never get tired of really, really good explosions.
Kinch had been expecting an explosion, but the one that came was substantial enough to make him duck and cover just in case any stray pieces of it might be coming his way at a hundred miles an hour. In hindsight, probably just one grenade would have done the trick... a note for next time. He paused for a few seconds to allow the remaining electrical charge time to dissipate into the grounding cables, then touched a screwdriver to two parallel sections of wire, bridging a circuit. For insurance, he'd donned rubber gloves: when working with high voltage, there was no such thing as 'too careful'. But there was no doubt that the current had completely discharged: there was no spark, no nothing. He stuffed the screwdriver back into his pocket and took out the wire cutters. So far, so good.
Newkirk and LeBeau were also momentarily startled at the intensity of the blast. "All of that from one little generator?" the Frenchman asked. "It sounded like a whole ammo dump."
"Andrew don't do nothin' halfway."
"Let's go. I already can't wait to get out of here."
Every guard in the place was running towards the fireball, so it was a simple matter for the two of them to make their way unseen towards the gun emplacement on the other side of the outpost. Newkirk gave the Frenchman a boost up to the control panel of the first gun in the row. "Hurry it up."
"You don't have to tell me." LeBeau ducked under the canvas cover. The miniature camera was perfect for this type of work, a simple one-button operation that required no focusing or other settings. There were a lot of settings on the panel, though. He began working systematically from left to right, advancing the film one frame at a time as he went. Each button, dial and switch was important; he knew he couldn't afford to miss any.
From Newkirk's perspective, the most critical thing was to ensure that the flash wasn't visible from outside. The camouflage tarp over the control panel was thick enough to conceal the light, but it kept shifting as LeBeau moved around underneath it. He pulled it tighter against the gun housing. "Stop your squirmin'," he whispered.
"What?"
Newkirk didn't have a chance to repeat himself. The next voice he heard came from behind him... and it definitely did not have a French accent. "Was machen Sie hier? Every man is needed to fight the fire!"
Uh oh. This was the second time tonight something hadn't gone as planned, and he didn't like this any better than he'd liked the first one. "Jawohl... I was just... lookin' for a bucket?" He hadn't intended to phrase it as a question, but it ended up coming out that way.
The guard – the same one who had admitted him a few minutes earlier – grabbed a tin pail from a nearby hook and slammed Newkirk in the stomach with it. "Are you blind? Schnell!"
Seeing no other way to respond, Newkirk fumbled a salute with his free hand and backed out of the enclosure. "Um... jawohl..."
"Raus!"
None of this had escaped LeBeau's notice. He froze as soon as he heard the guard's voice, then heard Newkirk reluctantly leave the area. The fading sound of the guard's emergency whistle as he ran after Newkirk to rejoin the men fighting the fire told him he was alone. Eh bien... better get back to work. He didn't need Newkirk's help to finish the job, and in fact he might finish quicker without all the editorializing. Newkirk could take care of himself.
The fire showed no sign of dying down anytime soon. The water from the hoses wasn't doing much except spreading the burning fuel in an ever-widening pool, and attempts to get close enough to smother the flames with buckets of sand were being driven back by the heat and smoke. A corner of the administration building had also flared up, and the guards fought to keep it from spreading to the rest of the structure.
Once he joined the fire brigade, Newkirk set himself to accomplishing as little as possible without attracting suspicion. It wasn't too difficult in all that chaos; there wasn't much he could have done to be effective even if he'd wanted to be. He was good at yelling and waving his arms, so that's what he set himself to, giving loud and conflicting directions to the soldiers, occasionally chucking half a bucket of sand well short of the actual flames.
Kinch lowered his sidearm when he recognized Carter approaching. "How many grenades did you use on that generator?"
"Just two," Carter replied. "Boy howdy, didja did see it?"
"See it? I think it singed my mustache." He finished the opening he'd cut in the fence and started to bend the sharp ends of wire back out of the way. "Where's Newkirk? He should be here by now."
"Oh yeah... I almost forgot to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"The guard made Newkirk drive the truck inside the compound. He'll have to come out this way with LeBeau."
"It'd be nice if at least one thing would go the way we planned it. Now we lose the truck and we'll have to walk all the way back to camp."
"Oops."
"Great... why don't we make it official, and call this Operation Oops." That about said it all, but if it was the worst thing that happened tonight, it wouldn't be all that bad.
Still, the night was young.
oo 0 oo
Hogan woke up back in the tunnel.
No... scratch that... this couldn't be the tunnel. The tunnel was under water. His short-term memory was a little cloudy, but he remembered that much. This place was pitch dark and close, but at least it was dry. He was lying on his back, on a hard flat surface. He tried to raise his hand to his forehead, but there was hardly even room to bend his elbow.
Right. Well. This must be solitary. He'd figured on ending up here eventually.
Moving very cautiously, he explored the narrow space with his hands and feet. There was almost no room to move, and none at all in which to change position. Straight sidewalls. Square corners. A flat surface just a couple of inches above his face. To his fingertips it felt like the enclosure had been carved from the hard pitted stone of that volcanic rock O'Brien had gone on about at such length and in such detail. So… this was a tunnel. It must be.
What else could it be?
But… what was with all the square corners? Who would dig a tunnel, even such a narrow one, with that kind of mathematical precision? What did it matter if…
I'm in the crypt!
The reality of his situation suddenly hit him harder than even the seawater had. He was alive… he could hear himself breathing hard and hear his heartbeat sending pulses of blood throughout his body… could feel cold sweat starting to run down his temples… alive, definitely… but Schreiner had put him where they only put dead men.
And how many men ever made it out of their own grave?