Chapter Seven

Olsen had escorted his fair share of difficult people to England, most of whom didn't want to go there in the first place, but this Russian lady had all of them beat in terms of sheer exasperation. Especially considering he wasn't actually taking her anywhere.

"Ma'am, I'm sure Colonel Hogan's already told you, but the escape routes are closed. All of 'em."

Marya took a drag on her cigarette and pouted. "Even your little submarine boat? Come, I am sure you have some way out left, as clever as you all are."

She attempted to lean up against Olsen and he sidestepped, quickly but politely. "Afraid not. It's impossible to get across the border now. Fighting's too heavy. You know that."

"But what about flying? The air is lovely this time of year. Very little turbulence."

Olsen ran a hand through his hair. He was beginning to see why the Colonel couldn't stand this lady. "Look, Marya, you can't take Burkhalter's airplane out of the country because it just left the country, all right? I was out there. I saw it take off. It's not an option."

Marya smiled. "What makes you think I was talking about that airplane, darling?"

"You'd think they would have left by now," Leutnant Kirschner observed, chewing on a blade of grass. He and several other members of Jagdgeschwader 7 stood in a loose circle around one of the fighter wing's precious jets, watching Hochstetter's men like hawks.

A mechanic, who had been loading ammunition into the plane's cannons, paused and wiped his forehead, squinting across the airfield. "Be a real pity if this gun went off with them standing there."

"Beruhigen sich, Stabsgefreiter," Major Stirn said. He was functioning as de facto commander during Kohlrausch's absence. "We still need those fools alive to defend the Fatherland."

"As if they'll be doing any defending," another pilot seethed. "I wouldn't put it past them to–"

His suppositions were interrupted by the sound of tires on tarmac and a squeal of brakes. The group looked over just in time to see Kohlrausch exit his mud-covered Kübelwagen. He slammed the door and stomped over, water dripping from his uniform.

"Oberst! We'd almost given you up for dead! Or arrested, at the least. Why are you soaking wet, sir?"

"No time for that," Kohlrausch snarled, wringing out his tunic as he spoke. "Why are those blasted brownshirts still polluting my airfield?"

"We confronted them with the General's orders, but they seem hesitant to comply," Stirn said. "Probably still think we're all traitors."

"Make them comply, then! Pepper them with lead if you have to. I want these planes airborne within the hour, we've wasted too much time as it is."

"Telephone for you, sir!"

Kohlrausch gave a growling sigh and started in the direction of the communications hut. "This had better be Himmler, with a personal apology," he muttered, taking the phone. "Kohlrausch here."

His men watched with curiosity as the Oberst's face reddened considerably. "Yes, Madame, of course I remember...no, not a proper introduction at all..."

Kohlrausch looked around, noticed the airmen still standing about, and briskly motioned them away. "Pardon me, you said the General is rather tied up at the moment?...oh, yes, yes, of course...anything to serve the leaders of the Fatherland...we can have a transport plane here in an hour...no, I doubt we could spare the men for a fighter escort...Madame, you must understand the situation, half of our planes are down for maintenance, and the runway...well, for a short flight only, perhaps, but it would have to be very brief, you understand..."

Marya turned from the telephone in the radio room with what could only be described as a smirk on her face. "It is done! My handsome Colonel Kohlrausch will allow General Burkhalter the use of an airplane, for what the Colonel believes will be merely a short trip."

Hogan sighed; the susceptibility of German officers to Marya's charms never failed to amaze him. "And somehow you plan to get yourself and Burkhalter to England during this short trip."

Marya shook her head. "Not Burkhalter. You would waste the last plane out of Germany on him? Better you keep him in the tunnels. No, Hilda and I will be accompanying our British contact, who will be disguised as General Burkhalter."

"Your British contact?" Things were never what they seemed with Marya, Hogan reminded himself with a sense of resignation.

"But of course! Did you think that I conducted my network of female spies without help from the British? Our British contact relayed information and gave us instructions, although of course we never met him personally. Until recently, when I was able to discover who he is."

"Really." Hogan regarded her with more than a little suspicion. "After all this time, why would you bother to do that?"

"I needed him, Hogan darling. As it turns out, he needed me, too. He must get to London as soon as possible."

Hogan rubbed his face wearily. "So are you trying to tell me that this British contact is Nimrod too?"

"Of course, darling. One might even say that he is THE Nimrod. At least he thinks so."

"And where is this Nimrod?"

"He is here, darling! That is why I had to bring Burkhalter back. Nimrod was hidden in the trunk of his staff car."

Hogan's head was spinning. After all the work he and his men had done to produce a multitude of Nimrods, Marya's latest revelation of yet another—scratch that, not just another, but THE Nimrod—was mind-boggling, and Hogan had just about had enough. He pushed his cap to the back of his head, put his hands on his hips, and glared at the Russian beauty.

"Okay, that's it. If I never hear the name Nimrod again, it will be too soon. So where the heck is he, and why the heck does he need us to get him to England? And why the heck didn't you tell me about him when you first showed up?"

"So many questions! I could not reveal him until I was certain there was a way out of Germany. I am afraid you would have reacted badly if you thought he was going to be your guest for the duration."

"You've stuck us with Burkhalter," Hogan pointed out. "How bad could Nimrod be?"

His rhetorical question was answered by an all-too-familiar voice.

"Hogan, old boy!"

As the dapper British officer known as Colonel Crittendon came into the radio room, Hogan staggered back in disbelief. "HE'S Nimrod?" He turned to Marya and hissed: "You will pay for this!"

"Hogan, darling!" she protested, eyes wide with hurt. "How could you be so cruel?"

"No need to chastise the poor fellow, my dear," said Crittendon, after offering Hogan a salute. "His previous acquaintance with me was not entirely felicitous, and one can hardly blame him for a certain degree of doubt. But Hogan, you must recall all the escapes I've had: dozens and dozens of them!"

"And recaptured every time, as I recall."

"All part of the deep cover, old boy. Did you never wonder what I was up to during my brief periods of freedom prior to recapture? But not to worry, my dear fellow. Marya tells me you still have radio contact with London and can verify my story."

"Yes, I can," Hogan growled. "Don't think I won't do it, either."

"Capital! Now, I agreed to accompany Marya to Stalag 13 to ask for your help, and a dashed uncomfortable ride I had in the boot of General Burkhalter's car, too!" Crittendon's tone abruptly lost its public school affectation and became deadly serious. "But I must get to London to deliver my message in person: the issue is most urgent."

"And just what is so important?" Hogan wanted to know.

"A matter which could adversely affect not only the conduct of the remainder of the war, but postwar relations between the United States and Britain as well. Two army generals, one from each country, are the targets of a plot conceived by Jerry in last-minute desperation."

Hogan frowned. "And who are these generals?"

Crittendon's voice was grim. "Patton and Montgomery."

It was like the words Patton and Montgomery were the secret code that everyone needed to put the final places of the plan into place. In spite of what Hogan thought of Marya, Crittendon or the multitude of Nimrods dropped into his lap, the Allies couldn't afford to lose two of their best generals with the end of the war in sight. So as soon as darkness descended the Nimrods and Heroes met at the closest airfield.

Kohlrausch looked uncomfortable as Hogan stood before him in his best German officer persona. "Now it is imperative that this plane makes it to Spain in one piece," Hogan ordered. "The General has a top secret meeting that has the potential to finally turn the tide in this war. Heil Hitler!"

The German officer returned the salute and then ordered his men to make things ready. If Kohrausch was thinking about why Burkhalter felt the need to make this trip with his attractive looking secretary and even more attractive lover, he didn't ask. Nor did he comment that Spain was a common stop on the route to Argentina. Some things were better to ignore.

Once the plane was prepared, Hogan held his breath as Crittendon stepped out of the truck with Marya draped all over him in one of her most seductive outfits. Subtlety was a word that simply didn't exist in the Russian's vocabulary. And Crittendon...at that transformation, Hogan could hardly believe his eyes.

Newkirk had done some of the his best work of the war with Crittendon's costume. Now the man wasn't going to convince anyone who knew him that he was Burkhalter, but they were counting on the soldiers to be unable to distinguish one fat general from another, and Crittendon had enough padding in his uniform to make pillows for all of the boys in Barracks 2.

Hilda looked smart and composed as she walked confidently aboard with a very valuable briefcase in hand. Hogan was just glad to know that someone sensible had her hand on the secrets.

Bringing up the rear was Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau as they struggled to carry one very large trunk onto the plane. After all, one couldn't expect a general to flee without his luggage.

Once his men returned minus the luggage, Hogan drove the truck to a safe distance away where they could watch the plane take off in peace. But even though they were about to rid themselves of some of their biggest headaches of the war, not all of his men were happy.

Newkirk sighed as he watched the runway. "I still can't believe we're stuck with Burkhalter for the duration."

LeBeau nodded. "Babysitting Klink is bad enough."

"No kidding," Carter said. "Perhaps he'll be more cheery in time."

Hogan draped his arms around his men's shoulders. "Gentlemen, I'm surprised at your lack of faith."

"You have a plan to get rid of Burkhalter!" Carter declared.

"I knew I could count on you, mon Colonel."

"How do you plan of getting that tub o' lard to agree, sir?" Newkirk asked.

"I didn't ask."

His three men exchanged looks and then all said at once, "He's already gone!"

The plane took off in front of them and Hogan grinned. "He is now. Let's just say, Marya is going to be in for a surprise when she opens that trunk."

"I'm not eating my hat!"

LeBeau whistled as he stirred a very special sauce. Carter, the current holder of Newkirk's hat, dangled it perilously above the boiling liquid. Kinch cracked his knuckles as he said, "You promised to eat your hat if Marya was Nimrod."

"Hilda was Nimrod! A Nimrod. With Helga. And Crittendon!"

"And Marya was manipulating them all. Which in my book makes her Nimrod." LeBeau held out his hand. "Hat, please."

Newkirk snatched it out of Carter's grasp. "Not happening."

Off in the background, Hogan chuckled to himself as he watched his men. He didn't know what the end of the war would hold. And with so many of the major players now out of the game, things would inevitability change. But one thing was most certainly true: things at Stalag 13 would never be boring. Which was why he couldn't resist adding fuel to the fire. "Let's have a vote. Raise your hand if you think Newkirk should have to eat his hat."

Every hand minus one shot straight up into the air.

Newkirk groaned. It was going to be a long rest of the war.