Michael returned to the forest’s edge and chose his spot. He began to dig a hole beneath the fence; for this task, a wolf’s paws were superior to human hands. Still, the ground was full of small rocks and it was strenuous work. But the hole grew, and when it was large enough, Michael pressed his belly to the earth and clawed himself under the fence. He stood up, on all fours, and glanced around. No soldiers in sight. He ran into the nearest alley, heading toward the heartbeat with a shadow’s silence.
He smelled and heard the truck coming before it turned into the alley behind him, and he leaped around a corner and flung himself flat before the headlights found him. The truck passed; in its backwash, Michael caught a sour odor of sweat and fear: a zoolike smell he associated instantly with Falkenhausen. He got up and followed the truck at a respectful distance.
The truck paused before a long building with shuttered windows. A corrugated metal gate was drawn up from within, and harsh light spilled out. The truck pulled into the portal, and a few seconds later the corrugated metal began to clatter down again. It fell, sealing off the light.
Michael’s gaze found a ladder, running up the building’s side to a catwalk about twenty feet above. The catwalk continued along the center of the roof. There was no time for deliberation. He found a group of oilcans nearby and crouched behind them. When the change was done and his white skin tingled with the cold, he stood up, ran to the metal-runged ladder, and quickly scaled it, something that a man’s hands and feet could do but a wolf’s paws could not. The catwalk went on to the next structure, but on this building’s roof there was an entry door. Michael tried it, and the knob turned. He opened the door, found himself in a stairwell, and started down.
He emerged into a workshop of some kind, with a conveyor belt and hoists just below the roof. There were stacks of crates and oil drums, and a couple of heavy load-pulling machines standing about. Michael could hear voices; all the activity was down at the other end of the long building. He carefully wound his way through the equipment, and instantly crouched down behind a rack full of copper tubing when he heard an irritated voice say, “This man can’t work! My God, look at those hands! Palsied like an old woman! I said bring me men who can use saws and hammers!”
Michael knew that voice. He looked out from his hiding place, and saw Colonel Jerek Blok.
The hulking Boots stood beside his master. Blok was shouting into the face of a German officer who had flushed crimson, and to their left stood a skinny man in the baggy gray uniform of a POW. The prisoner’s hands were not only palsied, they were gnarled by malnutrition. Beyond those four men stood seven other prisoners, five men and two women. On a large table were bottles of nails, an assortment of hammers and saws, and nearby a pile of timbers. The truck, flanked by two soldiers with rifles, was positioned near the metal gate.
“Oh, take this wretch back to his hole!” Blok gave the prisoner a disdainful shove. “We’ll have to use what we’ve got!” As the officer pushed the POW back to the truck, Blok put his hands on his hips and addressed the others. “I trust you are all well and eager to work. Yes?” He smiled, and his silver teeth threw a spark of light. There was no response from the prisoners, their faces pale and emotionless. “You gentlemen-and ladies-have been selected from the others because your records indicate a familiarity with carpentry. We are therefore going to do some woodcraft this morning. Twenty-four crates, built to the specifications as follows.” He withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Thirty-two inches in length, sixteen inches in height, sixteen inches in width. There will be no deviations from this formula. These crates will be lined with rubber. The points of all nails will be blunted once they are hammered in. All rough edges will be sanded to a uniform smoothness. The lids will be double-hinged and padlocked instead of nailed shut.” He gave the list to Boots, who went about nailing it up on a bulletin board for all to see. “Moreover,” Blok continued, “these crates will be inspected at the end of sixteen hours. Any not passing my inspection will be broken and its creator made to begin anew. Questions?” He waited. Of course there were none. “Thank you for your attention,” he said, and strode toward the metal gate with Boots right behind him.
The gate was being drawn up by the two guards, and the truck driver was backing it out with the officer and the palsied POW aboard. Blok did not attempt to hitch a ride on the truck, but he and Boots followed it out and then the metal gate was closed again. One of the guards shouted, “Get to work, you lazy shits!” to the prisoners, and the other strolled over to a woman and poked at her behind with the barrel of his rifle. A frail-looking man with gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses took the first step toward the worktable, then a younger man followed. When all the prisoners were moving-sluggishly, their minds and bodies beaten-the two guards sat down at a table and began to play cards.
Michael slipped back to the stairwell the way he’d come, ascended to the roof and then to the ladder again. On the ground he crouched behind the oilcans once more and grew a warm coat. His joints throbbed with the stress of so many changes within such a short time, and his muscles were sore, but he was ready to run again. He came out from his hiding place and sniffed the air. Through the multitude of scents he found the lemony tang of Jerek Blok’s hair pomade, and that was the trail he followed.
He turned a corner and saw Blok and Boots walking briskly just ahead. He followed them, slinking low. Twenty-four crates, Michael thought. Lined with rubber. What would go into those crates? It had occurred to him that the crates were about the size needed to hold a small shell, rocket, or bomb. The big transport plane out on the runway must be here to carry the loaded crates to wherever Iron Fist was hangared.
Michael’s blood pounded in his veins. He had the killing desire. Taking Blok and Boots would be a simple matter, here in this alley, though both men wore holsters and pistols. It would be a balm to the soul to tear Boots’s throat out and spit in his face. But he held himself back; his mission was to find out where Iron Fist was, and what kind of horror Dr. Hildebrand had created. First the mission, then he would feed his desire.
He followed the men to a two-storied concrete blockhouse near the center of the plant. Again, the windows were shuttered. Michael watched as Blok and Boots climbed a metal staircase and went through a second-floor doorway. The door closed behind them. Michael crouched down, waiting to see if they’d come out, but the minutes ticked past and they did not. It would be dawn in two hours. It was time to get back to Wolftown.
Michael returned to the place where he’d dug his way in. This time he dug the hole deeper so a human body might crawl under. Dirt flew from beneath his claws, and then he eased beneath the fence and ran into the woods.
The yellow wolf, who thought herself crafty, came out of the underbrush and followed off to the side. Michael outdistanced her, wanting to reach his equipment and change before she could get too close.
On two legs, dressed and with his backpack on and the Schmeisser strapped to his shoulder, Michael sprinted along the road back through Wolftown. Chesna rose up from where she’d been hiding behind a wall of crumbling stones, her machine gun aimed at the approaching figure. It was Michael, she saw in another moment. He had dirt all over his face.
“I’ve found a way in,” he told her. “Let’s go.”
6
The journey from Wolftown to the plant was harder on human legs than on wolfen, Michael soon learned. As he, Chesna, and Lazaris went through the woods, he heard noises all around them. The yellow wolf had brought her companions. Kitty had remained behind, to watch the boat, and also because her bulk would have slowed their progress to a crawl. Lazaris jumped at every sound-real or imagined-but Michael made sure the Russian kept the safety on his weapon and his finger off the trigger.
Michael went under the fence first. Lazaris followed, muttering beneath his breath at how he’d been born a stupid fool and did not wish to die as one. Then Chesna crawled under, her mind turning over the question of how Michael had dug such a hole without a shovel. In the shelter of an alley they stopped to remove extra ammo clips and two grenades from their packs. The clips went into the pockets of their parkas while the grenades were latched to the Schmeissers’ straps. Then they went on, staying close to the wall, with Michael in the lead.
He guided them toward the building where the prisoners were working. The two guards would be easy to overcome, and information about the plant could be gotten from the guards and the prisoners. Still, he took nothing for granted; each step was a careful one, and each turn a challenge. Near their target building Michael heard the noise of footsteps approaching and motioned Chesna and Lazaris down. He knelt, at an alley corner, and waited. One soldier was about to round the corner. As soon as Michael saw the man’s knees, he came up off the ground in a burst of power and drove his gun butt against the soldier’s chin. The man was lifted off his feet by the blow, and fell on his back to the pavement. He twitched a few times, then lay still. They dragged him into a recessed doorway
