Heroes, David Hagberg [me reader .txt] 📗

“On the count of three, you go. One is blinking red. Two is amber. And three is green.”

Deland nodded.

“Sixty seconds to target; take your position. And … good luck.”

Deland grinned. He laid the headset down and awkwardly pulled himself back to the opening in the side of the cabin. He clipped his rip cord snap shackle to the overhead ring, pulled his collar up, then took a deep breath, held it a moment, and let it out slowly. The red light was blinking … “One,” he shouted.

There was nothing outside but a cold, windy blackness. A void.

The red light went out and the amber began blinking.

“Two,” he shouted.

He gripped the side of the opening, braced his feet for the proper push off, and the amber switched to green.

“Three,” he shouted madly, and Deland pushed his way smoothly out the door, the slipstream pulling his body, the Lysander’s horizontal stabilizers and elevators flashing overhead, then a tremendous jerk as his arms seemed to be pulled out of their sockets, his back nearly dislocated.

The roaring noise was gone, the wind diminished to a gentle breeze, and the heart-clutching fall had been reduced to an almost pleasant sway.

To the east he could see a number of fires. There had been a bombing run over Berlin earlier tonight.

Below was a vague, quilted pattern of blacks, very dark grays, and only slightly lighter grays. He could see a road, but no town.

There were patrols around Berlin. He had been warned that because of the increased bombing, he would be shown little or no mercy should he fall into enemy hands. Especially dressed the way he was, with the forged Fiihrer-letter.

But that was a moot point now. He could not turn back and simply go home. His escape lay far to the north. To the submarine.

To Katrina in Wolgast. If she was still there. If the Gestapo had not arrested her and killed her.

The thought of Katrina in a Gestapo cell being tortured was almost more than he could bear. He had managed, for the most part, to put the thought out of his mind all these months, but now it reared its ugly head again.

First he had to land without hurting himself. Then he had to make it to the Nauen road without detection. Then he had to make his contact. The staff car would be hidden in a barn, just before the town, on the main road into Berlin. There was a certain twisted tree marking the dirt track. His contact would be there with his instructions. Then he had to find and kill Schey.

And somehow make his way north, across enemy lines, between Russian troops to to the east and Allied troops to the west.

The side of a grassy hill was suddenly coming up at him very fast. He got the impression of a broad clump of trees to the west and a road off to the north, but then he hit, willing himself to go loose, willing himself not to stiffen against the fall, willing himself to roll with the impact as he had been taught in one very brief afternoon of training.

He banged his left elbow on a rock, his fingers going numb, and then he was tumbling end over end, the parachute dragging him down the hill, until he managed to dig in his heels, grab the straps, collapse the chute running to them, and pull the fabric in close to his chest in a huge bundle.

There were no sounds. No sirens. No dogs barking. No troops coming.

Deland lay on the heap of the parachute, his heart hammering, the fingers of his left hand tingling.

He jumped up, released the parachute straps from around his chest and between his legs, and then bundled the entire thing up and raced off toward the protection of the trees below in a shallow valley.

It was chilly here, but he was sweating by the time he made it into the woods and crouched down. He watched the crest of the hill intently for the sign of any pursuit. The road and the town were just a couple of miles on the other side. If there were troops stationed there, they could easily have spotted him coming down.

After a few minutes, however, he pulled off his coveralls, having a hard time getting them over his uniform boots. Then he opened his pack and unfolded his entrenching tool.

Within five minutes he had managed to scrape a hole deep enough to dump the parachute, his coveralls, the shovel, and the pack, after he had removed his black leather gloves and his SS uniform hat.

He pushed the dirt, and then the leaves and twigs, over the hole, brushing the ground to make it seem as if it hadn’t been disturbed. Then he put on his hat, pulled on his gloves, and started around to the east of the hill, in the general direction of the highway.

It was a moonless night and yet he still felt very exposed out here. He would be hard-pressed to explain what he was doing wandering around the countryside, Fiihrer-orders or not.

After twenty-five minutes he had made it around the base of the hill, and below him, across a small creek, was the highway.

He could see the fires in Berlin as several soft red glows on the horizon to the east. Of the town of Nauen he could see nothing.

The barn was back toward the west.

He worked his way down into the narrow draw, then about fifty yards downstream, he found a place where a half-dozen big rocks had partially blocked the gentle flow, providing an easy path across.

On the other side he started up the cut, when he heard the sound of several trucks coming up the highway from the east.

He was just below the level of the roadway, and he threw himself down, flattening himself against the ground. Three troop trucks went by, their engines clattering, thick black smoke coming from their exhausts. The rear cargo flaps were open, and Deland could see