North Reich (66 page)

      
“Great job,” his sergeant had said.
 
Hipple said that it was an easy shot.
 
Killing a running rabbit at two hundred yards was a good shot, he’d added.
 
A quarter of a mile made it a great shot.
 
The sergeant had nothing to say.

      
He killed his second and third Germans in short order and during the same fight - again nothing difficult, just efficient. His fourth kill was a tank commander who’d foolishly opened his hatch so he could look around.
 
Dumb ass move, he’d commented later.
 
One bullet at four hundred yards had blown the top of the German’s head off.
 
The idiot hadn’t even been wearing a helmet. Even better, whoever was driving the tank put the thing in reverse and disappeared into the smoke, smashing anything that got in his way.
 

      
His buddies had cheered him and it felt good.
 
Killer Hipple they’d called him.
 
The lieutenant said he reminded him of Sergeant York, whoever the hell he was.

      
So now he was officially a sniper.
 
He was supposed to have a spotter, but he’d declined.
 
He said that all the other boys in his company were city types whose idea of stalking meant not yelling too loud.
 
Even the lieutenant, a snotty kid from Harvard, thought that comment was funny and the city boys seemed relieved that they didn’t have to go with him out into no man’s land.

      
The krauts had an outpost in front of the American lines.
 
It consisted of a couple of soldiers looking for American activity, which was steadily, painfully, creeping up towards Toronto.
 
The Germans were fighting every inch of the way and if he could kill some of them it might save the lives of his new buddies.
 
Thus, he was stalking the outpost.
 
Maybe they even had a sniper with them.
 
The Germans had some boys who were really good shots and he thought it would be real nice to nail one of them.

      
Hipple had positioned himself during the night.
 
He thought he was a few hundred yards from the Germans.
 
When dawn came, he saw that his estimate had been right.
 
He could see the slight scar in the earth where they had dug in.
 
He caught motion and studied the area before concluding that there were no more than three Germans hidden there.

      
He waited patiently and didn’t move.
 
It wasn’t difficult.
 
He’d spent lots of time stalking prey and waiting for the prey to come into range was part of the game.
 
He smiled as a German looked over the lip of the small trench.
 
A second German was now visible to that man’s left and Hipple decided that the second man was the sniper.

      
Hipple grinned and aimed his new rifle, a modified 1903 Springfield.
 
He’d fired it a couple of hundred times and knew it its idiosyncrasies intimately.
 
Ah, a head peered over a sandbag.
 
He shifted slowly so he could aim.
 
He squeezed the trigger and, a second later, the target jumped and fell backward. Hipple was confident the man was dead.
 

He reloaded quickly; hoping for what he thought would be a normal reaction from the Germans.
 
There, one of the dead man’s comrades had moved to help, thereby exposing his own body.
 
Hipple fired again and the second German collapsed.
 
He was reasonably certain that a third man now cowered in the bottom of the shelter and was probably pissing himself.
 
The German wasn’t going to expose himself or help anyone unless he panicked and tried to run.

      
He didn’t and Hipple resigned himself to waiting for darkness so he could make his way back to the American lines while the one remaining German did the same thing.
 
He now had two more notches on his rifle, although he didn’t actually carve notches.
 
They would spoil the beauty of the Springfield.
 

      
He would report to Colonel Canfield in person.
 
The colonel was very interested in his successes and there had been no further mention of his trying to desert what seemed like an eternity ago.
 
Life was good.
 
He was even beginning to like shit on a shingle.

It was hell having to be afraid of your own planes, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
 
From ten thousand feet, no pilot could tell friend from foe if he was traveling hundreds of miles an hour.
 
Thus, Tom and the others stayed safely in the warehouse and went out only at night and then in small groups.

      
But he had to move if he was going to do his job.
 
It wasn’t necessary for him to confirm what Tinker and Farnum had discovered.
 
All he had to do was send the information upstream so the air force could bomb the hell out of the field.
 
He just hoped they did it soon before the Germans got smart and moved the tanks since Tinker and Farnum had been discovered.

He was extremely concerned since the tanks were the dreaded Panthers.
 
Although many Americans thought that the Sherman was the best tank in the world, it had never fought the Panther.
 
Intelligence said that the Panther had done very well against the new Russian tank, the T34, and only the fact that the Panther hadn’t been produced in large numbers had kept it from defeating the Soviet’s best armor.

But that was not his immediate concern.
 
He, Lambert, and Landry had all donned Toronto police uniforms and were driving around the outskirts of the city.
 
Their headlights were dimmed against possible discovery and strafing by American planes.

As they drove past the two prison compounds, grim-faced Germans and equally tough-looking Canadian Black Shirts glared at their vehicle.
 
It was as if they held the local police in mild contempt and why not, he thought.
 
The Germans and their cohorts held the upper hand and the cops were largely impotent.

Grant seethed with impotent fury as they drove past and saw the prisoners through the barbed wire.
 
The American soldiers and airmen looked sullen and angry, but otherwise okay.
 
There were no apparent signs of mistreatment and, while thin, they did not look like they’d been starved.

“Why aren’t they in their barracks?” he asked Lambert.

The detective chuckled.
 
“They like to stay out at night.
 
It aggravates the hell out of the krauts who think they’re up to something.”

“I like that,” Tom said and Landry concurred.

The civilians, however, looked cowed and terrified.
 
“Rumor has it,” Lambert said, “that the Black Shirts like to come in and indiscriminately beat the shit out of the men along with molesting and raping the women.
 
The Red Cross has disappeared, so nobody’s watching the bastards.
 
It’s almost as if they know their time is limited so they are going to raise hell while they can.”

“Pricks,” said Landry.
 
“I hope they hang.”

“Thank God we Canadians still hang murderers and, I presume, traitors,” Lambert said grimly.

Later, Tom lay on the floor of the warehouse and tried to get to sleep.
 
He kept seeing the faces behind the wire.
 
He was reasonably confident that they could free the prisoners, but then what?
 
The Germans were retreating, which was good, but it also meant that their lines were compressing and there were now more Germans per square inch than before.
 
Slipping them through German lines was not an option.
 
He would have to be creative and he would also need from help.

Stahl heard car doors slam as he was half dozing in a chair.
 
He got up and went to the front window.
 
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
 
An army staff car was parked in front and coming up the walk was that damned blond bitch WAC and the same male officer from before.
 
What the hell?
 
How had they found him?
 
Then he realized they hadn’t.
 
If they’d known he was inside there’d be more of them and they’d be heavily armed.
 
These two looked bored, like they were running an errand.
 

He moved quickly, first unlocking the front door and then moving into the kitchen and closing the door connecting it to the living room.
 
He moved through the kitchen and into the dining room.
 

The man knocked on the door.
 
Stahl remained silent until he knocked again, this time a little impatiently.

“It’s not locked,” Stahl said.
 
“Come right in.”

The man came in first.
 
Stahl sensed he was looking around and focused on the closed kitchen door.
 
Good.
 
He moved quietly until he was only a few feet behind them.
 
The man hadn’t even taken out his pistol, while Stahl had his in his hand.

He lunged and brought the pistol butt hard against the man’s skull.
 
It landed with a sickening crack.
 
He crumpled and without even checking on his condition, Stahl turned and had the gun pointed at a stunned Alicia’s face.

“Don’t move unless I tell you and don’t scream or even talk if you want you and your friend to live through this.
 
Understand?”

She nodded and he ordered her to lie face down on the floor with her hands on her head.
 
He quickly patted her down, enjoying the feel of her body, and confirmed that she had no weapon.
 
Nor was there one in her purse.
 
Stahl checked the male officer and saw that he was breathing, although irregularly.
 
He wondered if he’d fractured the man’s skull.
 
Too bad if he had, he decided.

He unplugged a couple of lamps and yanked out the cords.
 
These he used to tie Alicia’s hands behind her back and her ankles together.
 

He found some more cords and tied up the still unconscious officer.

Stahl sat down on the couch and looked through their ID cards.
 
“Now, Lieutenant Cutter, just what are you doing here?
 
Who sent you?”

She had managed to roll over and sit up.
 
Alicia wanted to tell him that her name was now Grant and not Cutter, and that she hadn’t changed her ID, but decided the distinction was ridiculous under the circumstances.
 

“We were sent here to check on Dr. Morris.
 
He’s wanted to attend a meeting and there’s no phone here.
 
Who are you and what are you doing here, and where’s Langford?”

“Please don’t insult me, Lieutenant Cutter.
 
I recall you and this man sitting on a bench near the White House while I met with the good doctor.
 
You know very well that I am Heinrich Stahl and that I am the man responsible for the massacre in Wall Street as well as the killing of Vice President Wallace.”

Stahl laughed.
 
“As to Langford, he’s buried in the basement and won’t be attending any meetings.”

Alicia was sickened but thought it sounded like Stahl was bragging.
 
“Will you let me check out Captain Baldwin?
 
He could die if he doesn’t get help.”

“You will leave him alone and I don’t care if he dies.
 
He’s a soldier.
 
You, on the other hand, are a woman regardless of the ridiculous uniform you’re wearing.”

“Does that mean you won’t kill me?”

“Not unless I find it necessary, but if I have to, I will kill you instantly and without compunction.
 
I’ve killed women before, although they were either Jews or Slavs and they don’t matter because they aren’t really human.
 
It would be a shame to have to shoot anyone as lovely as you, but I will do it, believe me.
 
On the other hand, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman.”

 
With that he reached down and cupped her breast.
 
When she tried to pull away, he pushed her down and straddled her.
 
He slid his hand inside her blouse and bra and caressed her nipple. Then he twisted and ran his hands up her thighs past her cotton stockings and fondled her with his finger.
 

He laughed and stood up, “Enough for now, although there might just be time for more fun later.
 
You look almost Aryan so you should enjoy getting fucked by a German.
 
If you promise to cooperate, I’ll let you check out Captain Baldwin.
 
Tell me, is he your lover?”