1945 (44 page)

"They're burning us out!" the Ranger gasped. Jim stuck his head through tie doorway and looked up. The top of the stairwell framed an inferno.

12:30 A.M.

"Sir, sir! I must!"

Skorzeny forced himself to allow the medic to draw his hands away from what he knew was a terrible wound. When the site was cleared the medic peered at it for a moment, then upended a canteen of water to wash the blood and detritus away. The stream struck like a slashing razor. For a moment he thought he'd faint from the pain, then it ebbed to mere agony. He'd taken four serious wounds in his career, of which the worst had been to his leg. Even that had not hurt, compared to this.

"Sir, let me give you something for the pain. You're out of this one."

"No. I won't be out of this one till it's over, and I can't afford to be stupid____I only have one eye now, right?"

The medic nodded.

"Bandage me up. There's work to be done."

The medic reached into his pack for a pair of medical scissors. There was a brief
switching
sound of meat being cut away.

"What'd you do?" Skorzeny asked.

"It was hanging out of its socket, sir. There was nothing else to be done."

As the medic pressed a pad against the wound, Skorzeny remained steady and stolid as a rock, but his world went gray as the shattered bones of his cheek grated against each other. The bullet had just touched the left cheekbone; hydrostatic shock had done the rest. Any change at all in angle or position and he would have been as dead as Martel had intended him to be.

Forcing himself back into the world, Skorzeny focused on the burning building on the far side of the baseball field. "Who set the fires?"

"Gunther ordered it. He's the one who pulled you out. He came in to get you and ordered the building fired when the defense perimeter at the other end of the building collapsed. Suddenly the men started dropping dead with no enemy in sight Then, when somebody said it was Alvin York come for revenge, the rest panicked. Of course there were only three or four alive by then. Sir ... ? Who was Alvin York? Somebody said he single-handedly killed or captured one hundred and thirty-nine Germans in one afternoon in the last war. But that's impossible."

Skorzeny said nothing. York had been a figure from the Great War of some little interest to him, one of the few individuals of any army worthy, in his limited way, of comparison to himself. He tried to remember the details that had seemed irrelevant at the time .. . Alvin York ... didn't he ... ? Yes, he lived in this state. There was no doubt then. Combat soldiers slaughtered as if by sorcery, probably with neat little bullet holes in the centers of their helmets ... the ones left alive bereft of all nerve...

Alvin York had emerged from the mists of legend to screw up his operation with his magic sharpshooting. Life just wasn't fair. Forgetful of his injury, he started to shake his head, until a lightning-flash of pain reminded him. Well, he consoled himself, York or no York, "Manhattan" was
kaput,
and Otto Skorzeny was the one who had done it.

"Where is he?" Skorzeny asked.

The medic hesitated. "Sir?"

"Gunther. Where is he?"

Wordlessly the medic pointed over to the side of the baseball dugout which had served as headquarters. Gunther was stretched out on the ground, looking almost as if he were asleep.

"Just before you regained consciousness a sniper got him." The medic looked around nervously. "Why didn't he kill us, too?"

Skorzeny looked over at the body of his friend and shrugged, saying nothing. There was nothing worth saying. The gallant York had spared a medic and an anonymous casualty with half his face blown away.

A stream of tracers etched a curved line across the field. The remainder of Skorzeny's personal team returned fire. They were all gathered together now, those who were still alive, waiting for the pull-out.

The medic finished tying off the bandage and Skorzeny, waving off the medic's offer of assistance, stood up.

The administrative building was now fully ablaze, adding its light and smoke to the inferno of Oak Ridge. A fighter plane came sweeping in low across the field and then arced back up into the darkness.

"Let's go," Skorzeny announced. "We've finished here."

After two of its members carefully helped Skorzeny aboard, the team loaded itself into a captured truck, taking nothing but weapons and ammunition. As the truck gathered speed Skorzeny took a last look at his friend, and

then at the burning administration building.

Bitterly Skorzeny contemplated all the harm that Martel had done him. Without Martel's intervention the operation would have gone flawlessly, As it was—half his force dead,
all
his remaining friends dead. Worse, had he been a little more practiced, or a little luckier, or had a touch more support, Martel might have stopped him cold, in fact had very nearly done so. And Martel was really nothing but a pilot. An amateur had almost defeated the great Otto Skorzeny, and
had
left him a friendless wreck.

As the glow of the Admin building faded behind them, Skorzeny whispered softly, as to an intimate, "Martel, I hope you burn in hell forever, just as you are burning now."

12:45 A.M.

Jim hugged the corridor floor, coughing, struggling to take another breath, wondering what the hell to do. Further down the hallway nearly twenty yards of the corridor ceiling had collapsed. They were cut off, and the fire was coming for them.

Suddenly there was a puffing explosion of hissing steam from the gutted stairway, followed by a slowly building cascade of frothing water. Then, like a disapproving Saint Peter at the Gates of Heaven, General Leslie Groves stood looking down on him, offering reluctant salvation.

"On your feet, Martel."

Martel struggled erect, as did the Ranger.

"Where are the rest?"

"Down the corridor to your right, sir. Can't miss it."

Groves looked at him sharply. "Well get a move on, damn it. The rest of the ceiling is about to cave in!"

Actually there wasn't much for Jim to do, nor for the MPs Jim was suddenly aware stood behind the general. The men he had left in the storage room, the battle room, were now flowing down the corridor toward them. He stepped aside as the first of the scientists staggered unceremoniously through the door and up the stairway, which was clouded in a mixture of steam and damp dark smoke. After the first few had disappeared into the billowing smog, a sort of controlled panic ensued. With no regard for rank at all the crowd of physicists and engineers pushed and shoved its way through, those more or less whole helping their wounded comrades, as well as, to Jim's amazement, a few Germans who had indeed been not quite dead after all.

Physicists. They just couldn't keep track of who the enemy was.

Bringing up the rear was General George Marshall. Groves silently saluted.

Ignoring his fellow general, Marshall said with a grin, "Well Commander Martel, we did it, didn't we? Now let's get out of here. You first this time." With that he gave Jim a friendly shove through the doorway.

Under that five-star impetus Jim ascended to the main landing where a fireman grabbed him by his wounded arm and pulled him along. Manfully resisting the urge to add yet one more to the casualty list, Martel let himself be led outside. The several dozen survivors of the attack, the men who would rebuild "Manhattan," were sprawled on the ground. Except for those nearly comatose from their wounds, all were coughing and gasping from the effects of the smoke. A number of armed civilians carrying an assortment of hunting rifles and shotguns moved among them, offering what aid they could.

One of them, carrying a battered old Springfield and a holstered pistol, offered Jim a hand. About to tell the fellow that he was too busy to rest, Jim suddenly realized he was at loose ends. Looking around, he saw that Marshall had relented and was deep in consultation with Groves. Jim supposed he was once again an onlooker.

"You're pretty beat up," his helper announced. "Let me get somebody to look at you."

"It'll wait. Got anything to drink?"

"You put that bandage on yourself? It looks about ready to come off, and then you'll start bleeding again," the stranger insisted as he reached into his pocket, where he found a pint bottle. "Reckoned someone might have a use for this," he said, smiling. First uncorking it, he passed it over, and Jim took a long, grateful slug of bourbon.

Exhaling mightily, he passed the bottle back. "Good whiskey!" he wheezed. "Strong, anyway.... You used to be a soldier? You carry that rifle like you know how to use it"

"Yeah, I was a soldier last time, in Europe," the man replied as he gently took Jim's arm and started rearranging the self-applied rag bandage. "Medic!" he suddenly shouted.

The passing medic paused, assessed, shook his head. "Man, I got people dying here. This one can wait."

"Well, spare me a roll of gauze, okay soldier?"

The corporal shrugged and tossed him one.

Without comment, the civilian pulled out a hunting knife and cut through the rags around Jim's arm, cut off the sleeve of his shirt, and slit the yoke so that the shoulder was exposed as well.

"Belleau Wood?"

"Huh?"

"We were talking about where you saw service," Jim said.

"Oh. Uh ... yeah. And the Argonne. And other places." Carefully he tied off the bandage on Jim's forearm and began the more complex task of cleaning and bandaging the shoulder, continuing the conversation as he did so. "Now, I'm a sheriff a ways up the road. I was here visiting my cousin. He's a sheriff too. We heard on the radio about the bombing, and we could see it, so we came on down. As a matter of fact we'd gotten this strange phone call an hour or so before, so we'd already organized some vets."

He hesitated and looked back at the firestorm consuming the town to the north. "I reckon we done some 
good," he said quietly. "Not nearly enough, but some." Finishing up the rough field dressing, the normally teetotaling sheriff paused to take a sip from the bottle, corked it, and handed it back to Martel.

Martel did not comment on the phone call, merely said, "Well, my friend, you sure saved me from getting cooked —and see those guys on the lawn, the ones in civvies? By saving them you just might have saved your country. And here's to you." As he took another slug of whiskey, Martel again noticed Marshall and Groves, still conferring as they
i
walked toward a jeep. A major and a captain hovered nearby, close enough to take and relay orders without interfering in their talk.

Suddenly, as if telepathic, Marshall swiveled his head and, gazing directly at Martel, gave a small peremptory gesture that brought Jim to his feet. Taking a final slug, Martel nodded his thanks to the civilian, handed him back j his bottle, and returned to work. As he was leaving he
j
turned and said, "By the way, I'm Jim Martel. What's your name?"

"York Sheriff Alvin York Pleased to meet you, Jim Martel."

Nodding, Jim turned away. There was something about that name....

"Commander!" Marshall called as Jim approached. "They're withdrawing toward the new airstrip. They must have some planes landing there. I'm trying to get word to those fighter planes overhead but it's absolute chaos. They can't see the strip, and so far we haven't been able to organize a force to punch through and light it up. Plus our only communication is through a single phone line running through Knoxville. We're looking for some ham radio operators, but with Oak Ridge in flames we're having to look pretty far afield. Damned security radios won't talk to the damned fighter-plane radios. Do you believe that? Well by God it's going to change, but for the moment all we can do is go after the Germans the old-fashioned way. We're heading down there now to try and cut them off."

While they were talking Groves had climbed into the jeep and turned the ignition. Without waiting to be asked, Martel climbed in behind him, leaving shotgun for Marshall. When Marshall was aboard Groves pulled out and the jeep began to travel on the road that ran southwest parallel to the open field behind the administrative building. Behind them, six truckloads of armed men pulled into line.

"Sir! Pull over here for a second!" Martel shouted.

"What now, damn it?" Clearly, though he could hardly admit it, Groves had seen enough of Martel for one day, or one lifetime for that matter.

"That Piper Cub. Please pull over to it. I have an idea. Just take a second."

"We don't have time for your bullshit, Martel. Just because—"

"Pull over, General Groves," Marshall interjected flatly.

Without a word, General Groves did as ordered.

Martel climbed out of the jeep and ran over to the Cub's side, while the convoy waited impatiently. He came back a minute later. "I met that Piper" — Christ, was it only yesterday? — "It had a radio. I just managed to get into direct contact with the military in Knoxville. They're relaying the information up to the fighters. At least I hope they will."

12:47 A.M.

"Here comes the X-10 team!"

Skorzeny turned and saw several autos and two trucks leaving the road and coming straight at the airstrip. That had to be Karl; the survivors of the Y-12 team and Richer's group had already come in, and the K-25 team wouldn't be coming in at all. Those who had come in had boarded the first three transports, which were already lined up on the runway. The only thing that remained to be done after loading Karl's people would be to set the triggers on the thermite grenades in the planes that were being abandoned because there were no passengers for them. With any luck that would prove quite diverting for the frustrated Mustang pilots ghosting around up there.