swiftly joined the pair at the doors. Both men were
studying the bolts and the layers of plating and the
complicated lock with tiny flashlights.
“Fuse it and blow it,” said the American.
“There’s no alarm.”
“Are you sure?” asked Joel. “From what I
gathered, this whole place is wired.”
‘The trips are down there,” explained the other
pilot pointing toward the three-foot-high concrete
wall on each side of the parade ground.
“Trips?”
“Trip lights. Intersechng beams.”
“Which means there are no animals,” said the
German, nodding. “Keine Hunde. Sehr gut!”
The fourth man had finished stuffing wads of a
soft, puttylike substance into the lock mechanism,
using his knife to finish the job. He then took out a
small circular device no larger than a fifty-cent coin
from his pocket, layered another mound of the
substance directly over the lock and plunged the
coin into it. “Move back,” he ordered.
Converse watched, mesmerised. There was no
explosion, no detonation whatsoever, but there was
intense heat and a glowing blue-white flame that
literally melted the steel. Then a series of clicks
could be heard, and the American quickly slid back
the triple bolts. He pushed the right door open and
blinked his flashlight outside. Moments later Johnny
Reb and Geoffrey Larson walked through the door
into the strange compound.
“Trips,” repeated the American to the Rebel.
“They’re all along those two walls,” he said, pointing.
“See them?”
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 685
“I can,” replied the Southerner. “And that means
there’ll be a few shooting straight up on top for
tiptoeing feet. All right, boys, let’s do a little
crawling. Bellies down with knees and asses
wiggling.” The six at the door joined the two
crouched in front of the platform. Johnny whispered
in German, then turned to Larson. “My English
friend, I want you to stay right here until us
old-timers give you the high sign to catch up with
us.” He looked at Joel. “Sure you want to come?”
“I won’t bother to answer that. Let’s go.’
One by one, with the German who was $5,000
richer in the lead, the seven men snaked their way
across the old parade ground. Barely breathing,
trousers torn, knees and hands scraped by the rough,
cracked concrete. The German headed for the break
between buildings 2 and 3, counting from the right.
It was a connecting cement path with gradually rising
steps on the left. He reached the open space and
stood up.
Suddenly he snapped his fingers once not very
loud but loud enough. Everyone froze where he was
under the field of intersecting alarm beams.
Converse turned his head on the ground to try to see
what was happening. The German was crouched in
the shadows as a man came into view, a guard with
a rifle slung over his shoulder. Aware of another
presence, the guard whipped his head around; the
German lunged out of the shadows, his long-bladed
knife arcing in midair toward the man’s head. Joel
closed his eyes, the sound of savagely expunged air
telling him more than he cared to know.
The movement began again, and again, one by
one, each member of the unit reached the path.
Converse was soaked with sweat. He looked at the
row of U-boat slips ahead and the sea beyond them
and wished to God he could fall into the water. The
Rebel touched his elbow, indicating that Joel should
take out his gun as the Southerner had done. It was
now Johnny Reb who took the lead; he crept out to
the front of building 2 and turned right, crouching
close to the ground, heading toward the lighted
windows. His fingers snapped; all movement stopped,
bodies now prone. Diagonally to the left, by the edge
of a giant slip were the glow of cigarettes and the
sound of men talking quietly three men, guards
with rifles.
As if they had been given an order, three of the
five men hired by the Rebel which ones Converse
could not tell broke away and started crawling in a
wide arc toward
686 ROBERT LUDIUM
the opposite side of the old U-boat berth.
Approximately a minute and a half later the
longest ninety secondsJoel could remember a
barrage of muted reports punctured the night
breezes off the sea. The subsequent sounds were
minimal as hands clutched at heads and bodies
snapped before falling to the concrete ground. The
hired guns returned and Johnny Reb waved them
forward, with Converse forced to be the last as men
grabbed his shoulders and passed him. They
reached the only lighted window in building 2; the
Rebel stood up and inched his way to the glass. He
turned and shook his head; the unit proceeded.
They came to the open space between buildings
1 and 2. Cautiously each man ran across, crouching
the instant he reached the opposite edge and then
racing ahead. It was Joel’s turn; he got to his knees,
then to his feet.
“Horst? Bist das au?” said a man harshly, walking
out of a door and up the cement path.
Converse stood motionless. The rest of the unit
was well past the edge of building 1 as the sounds
of the North Sea crashing on the rocks in the
distance blocked out the intruder’s voice. Joel tried
not to panic. He was alone, and if he panicked, he
could blow the operation apart, destroy the complex
at Scharhorn, killing everyone, including Connal
Fitzpatrick, if, indeed, the young commander was
there.
“Ja, ” he heard himself saying as he turned away
into the shadows, his right hand reaching across his
waist for the hunting knife. He could not trust his
gun in the darkness
“Warten Sie einen Augen/,lick! Sin sind nicht Horst'”
Joel shrugged, and waited. The footsteps
approached, a hand grabbed his shoulder. He spun
around, gripping the handle of the knife with such
force that it nearly blocked out the terrible thing his
mind told him he had to do. He grabbed the man’s
hair and brought the razor-sharp blade across the
throat.
Wanting to vomit, he pulled the man into the
darker shadows; the head was all but severed from
the body. He raced across the open space and
caught up with the others No one had missed him;
each man was taking his turn peering into one of
the four lighted windows in a row. Johnny Reb was
beyond the first, successively pointing in different
directions firmly, rapidly, and each man, after a
crisp nod, ducked away. An assault was about to be
immediately executed. Converse raised himself to
the edge of the last window and looked in
THE AQUITAINE PROGRESSION 687
side. Instantly he understood why the Rebel had to
act quickly. There were ten guards in what could only
be described as paramilitary uniforms belonging to
no recognisable army. Each was either strapping on
a weapon, looking at his watch or crushing out a
cigarette. Then, more ominously, they checked the
ammunition clips in their rifles and automatics.
Several laughed, raising their voices as if making
demands at the expense of the others. Joel could not
understand the words. He moved away from the
window and confronted Johnny Reb, who was close
to the ground.
‘It’s a patrol going out, isn’t it?” whispered Converse.
“No, son,” replied the Southerner. ‘ It s a firing
squad. They just got their orders.”
“My God!”
“We follow them, staying low and out of sight.
You may find your old buddy Fitzpatrick, after all.”
The next minutes were straight out of Kafka,
thought Joel. The ten men lined up and walked out
the door leading to building 2. Suddenly floodlights
blazed throughout the parade ground, the trip lights
obviously turned off as the squad walked out on the
concrete. Two men with automatics in their hands
ran to building 4; they unlocked and then unbolted
the heavy door, and raced inside shouting orders as
lights were turned on.
“Alles auistehen! ‘Raus! Mach schnell! Schnell!”
Seconds later, gaunt, manacled figures began
straggling out in their ragged clothes, blinking at the
harsh lights, some barely able to walk and supported
by others who were stronger. Ten, twenty,
twenty-five, thirty-two, forty. . . forty-three.
Forty-three prisoners of Aquitaine about to be
executed! They were marched toward the concrete
wall fronting the platform at the far end of the
parade ground.
It happened with the hysterical force of a crowd
gone mad! The condemned men suddenly bolted in
all directions, those nearest the two guards with the
automatics crashing the chains of their manacled
hands into the stunned faces. Shots rang out, three
prisoners fell and writhed on the ground. The firing
squad raised their rifles.
“Now, you mother-lovin’ catfish hunters!” shouted
Johnny Reb as the entire Scharhorn unit raced into
the melee, pistols firing, muted spits mingling with
the ear-shattenng explosions of the unsilenced
weapons.
It was over in less than twenty seconds. The ten men
of
688 ROBERT LUDLUM
Aquitaine lay on the ground. Six were dead, three