The train now looked like a chopped-up worm, the rear section thrown helter-skelter off the rails, only the front cars, about thirty, still upright but off track, one, its side split, spilling a load of sulfur, the yellow in stark contrast to the green fields by the track. But Delcorte knew that derailing the train would delay it only a matter of hours, and so he and the remaining F-16s came in again, Delcorte leading.
He never saw the missile — only felt a thump somewhere on the fuselage and the F-16 shaking violently. He pulled the stick back and gave her full power. He was climbing, but barely, and it felt like a heart-testing machine that, no matter what he did, would not allow him to go faster, sweat pouring from him, instruments jiggling, fuel warning light on, a pins-and-needles sensation in his right leg. He was at three thousand. Quickly he tightened his harness, pulled his legs hard together, reached up overhead, gripped the two ejector rings, and pulled them down over his front.
With the sound of a pistol shot, the cockpit was gone — the ejection the most violent shock he’d ever felt — and all he could think about was whether the pins and needles in his right leg meant he was shot up, the walls of blue sky, spinning cloud, and green fields, the brown of a farmhouse coming up at him. For a second he was convinced the chute hadn’t opened, but then, quite suddenly, he seemed still in the air, the drag weight growing heavier under his arms, and he had the sensation of actually moving upward though he was still drifting down, a good seven miles from the train — now a thin, black line in the Harz’s purple foothills.
When he landed there was still not much feeling in his leg, but he could see he wasn’t shot. He made no attempt to hide the parachute as it was inconceivable to him that though he was in the countryside, anyone would have failed to see him land. But when he spotted the truck, green-uniformed troops standing in the back against the wooden slat side, he began pulling the parachute in, feeling, oddly enough, that he’d be in trouble if he didn’t. Littering. He knelt down by the camouflage-patterned chute, took out his standard-issue.45, placed it on the chute, felt for the emergency ration pack, slipped the packet in his flying suit, and stood up, hands held high, walking well away from the sidearm so there’s be no possible misunderstanding.
The truck stopped ten feet from him, and a stout GDR “Home Force” officer came out, pistol drawn, looking grumpily at him and walking over with the exaggerated stride of a minor official, peering at the chute and the.45 but touching neither, as if there might be some booby trap. Then he started shouting at Delcorte, pointing in the distance to what presumably was the train wreck.
The other door slammed and a woman in khaki came bustling out, yelling at the man in what Delcorte was pretty sure was Russian. The man tried to cut in several times, but she wouldn’t let him and kept shouting at him. Delcorte felt ridiculous but didn’t figure this was the time to grin, let alone laugh. But for some inexplicable reason, perhaps because of his fatigue, he began hiccupping. He thought of Emily, his fifteen-year-old, who had given him her “recipe” for curing the hiccups: “Swallow a glass of water, hands up high, and hold your breath.”
“That’s crazy.”
“No, truly, Daddy. Try it.”
Delcorte heard the Russian woman walk to the parachute, then she was beside him. Cupping her hand over the.45’s hammer, she fired once. The hole was very round and she was relieved nothing had spat back on her uniform as the American flyer staggered, legs crumpling like a rag doll. The East German said the American was still looking at them, but the Russian officer told him that was nonsense. He couldn’t possibly be alive. In any case, it was quite clear to the East German that she wasn’t going to waste another bullet as she walked over and put the.45 in the American’s right hand.
She went back to the truck and returned with an old Voigtlander camera.
There was a loud argument about the correct exposure, as it was getting dark and the old Vito B camera didn’t have a light meter.
“F5,” said one of the soldiers.
“No, no. F8—or it will be washed out. You’ll see.” The Russian woman said they’d better make up their minds because soon there wouldn’t be enough light left and Berlin wanted just such a photo to show the world how the American terrorist bombers, so shamed by what they’d done, preferred to commit suicide than answer to the people.
“No one will believe that,” one of the younger soldiers said scornfully.
“That’s not the point, Comrade,” the Russian told him. “It will tell the people what to do with American pilots.” She went to click the camera and discovered the film hadn’t been advanced. There was a murmured insult about Moscow know-it-alls. She ignored it.
“He’s still moving,” said one of the soldiers.
“Suicides don’t shoot themselves twice, Comrade,” said the Russian.
“What do you mean, Comrade Lieutenant?” the soldier asked her.
“Think it out for yourself,” she said. “Put him in the trunk.”
He was so heavy, it took four of them to hoist him aboard, his head lolling, completely lifeless now in the lavender light of autumn sky, two of them turning their heads away in disgust, the other two, in their late teens, laughing hysterically.
“What is so amusing?” asked the Russian officer. She was from the Political Corps, whose members were stationed in every Warsaw Pact village and town to help render “fraternal assistance” to Russia’s allies.
“He is making a bad smell,” said one of the giggling youths.
“It is quite natural,” she said.
Earlier that day, in southwestern Germany 450 miles away, a twenty-six-year-old American lieutenant and a Lance missile’s crew of three had readied their truck under camouflage netting. They were in a clearing deep in the heavily wooded area on the German side of the French-German border over ninety miles west of the confluence of the Isar and Danube. In the pine-scented air mixed with the acrid odors of the battle raging barely fifty miles east of them, the first of the conventional warhead mobile launch batteries to fire in World War III was in the countdown.
“Five, four, three, two—” The American lieutenant turned the switch, and with a feral roar the twenty-foot Lance streaked up the ramp on its forty-mile journey eastward toward the Czechoslovakian- and Russian-led tank divisions pouring through and over the alluvial flats of the Danube. The moment she had closed the circuit, Lt. Margaret Ford snapped closed the lid of the khaki “shoot and scoot” box. “Okay, let’s go!”
The three-man crew needed no encouragement, for all of them knew that within five minutes of the rocket’s firing, the Soviet-WP detection units on the Czech-German border would have them vectored in and they’d be under counter battery fire.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
General Freeman was dreaming. It was long ago, and in the dream he was gazing down through the shot- dirtied air as French cannonades, steadily walking toward his lines, their noise stunning many a soldier by Freeman’s side, continued their deadly fire, and the muskets of his own infantry squares steamed in the rain from countless volleys. And still Napoleon’s infantry advanced, smoke from their cannons rolling in front of the big guns like fog. Now and then the sound of a French musket ball striking his sword’s scabbard gave off the strange, eerie sound of someone rubbing his fingers about the rim of a champagne glass, and all around him, like an errant ghost, was the sweet smell of wheat trampled under the boots of Napoleon’s army. His horse strained at the bridle, and through a gap in the smoke Freeman saw the first line of French cuirassiers, the squadron’s second line of cavalry, advancing at the walk some twenty yards behind. Freeman doubted they’d begin the swinging gallop as yet, the slippery ground littered with dead soldiers and mounts, if indeed they began it at all. It was late in the day at Waterloo. Europe held its breath — and still the Prussian reinforcements had not appeared. There was no time left. He drew his sword.
He awoke in pitch darkness, heard voices, unsure of where he was — then felt the yaw of the ship. His eyes sandpaper-dry from the heat of the recycled air, Freeman glanced at his watch. Three a.m. Someone was knocking on his cabin door. He flicked on the reading light, swung his legs off the bunk, and was pulling on his boots as the knocking continued. From long habit and in one fluid motion his left hand reached out, took the nine-millimeter Beretta revolver, and placed it firmly in the left shoulder holster. He stood, buttoning up his tunic. “Come in!”
