Cavalieri grinned. “Good luck yourself. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” Then he led his men off the road into shadowed darkness.
Macurdy didn’t stay to watch them disappear. Up on the ridge, the trucks had started again; the Germans had gotten the plane out of the road. Presumably whoever was in charge would send part of his force in pursuit. No doubt others word continue searching above. On Macurdy’s order, his people, even Von Lutzow, quickened their pace. Two minutes and a sixth of a mile farther, he turned off the road, crossing the ravine bottom to lead them angling up the ridge on their right.
With a little elevation, they could see three trucks comin down the road from the crash site, headlamp beams brow and bright in the night, light security ignored. Spotlights played over the roadsides as they growled down the grade in third gear. There wasn’t effective cover, only thin spiny shrubs, rock outcrops, and minor terrain irregularities. “Come on, you guys,” Macurdy ordered, “kick her out of neutral! We’ll need to be farther up the hill than this, or we’re dog meat. They’ll have machine guns and lots of Schmeissers on those trucks.”
They hunkered down, digging for uphill speed. Von Lutzow’s concussion hadn’t lessened his will to survive; he hustled with the rest of them. The trucks reached the bottom of the ravine and never paused, just rolled on down the road in a thick cloud of dust. Their spotlights swept the bordering slopes, but never reached high enough to find the gasping, puffing troopers. The Americans stopped to rest, watching.
“We lucked out, sarge,” someone said quietly.
“That wasn’t luck, Monty,” Macurdy growled, “that was legs.” There were still two trucks by the wreck, spotlights playing in the distance. There’d be a whole damned platoon up there searching; they’d find the chutes for sure, if they hadn’t already. . Not that it’ll do them any good, he told himself, then added they ready do want these guys. He looked speculatively at Von Lutzow, who seemed about ready to puke, whether from exhaustion or concussion, Macurdy didn’t know. Maybe both.
When they’d gotten their wind, he moved them on again toward the crest, now at an easier pace. It seemed to Macurdy they had the situation whipped, even if they did have a long way left to hike. When they reached the top, he stopped again. “Take a break,” he said, and the men flopped down, lying back on their musette bags. Macurdy sat on the ground beside a prostrate Von Lutzow. The man’s aura was shrunken, and there was a black hole in it above the forehead.
“How are you doing?” Macurdy asked. In German.
The spy looked up at him and answered in English. “My head hurts.” He paused. “And my scalp burns.” Another pause. “I’m worried about Morrill.”
The words were still somewhat monotone; his mind was functioning at maybe fifty percent, Macurdy thought. He switched to English, too. “Morrill’s your partner?”
Von Lutzow barely nodded, probably because his head hurt. “Cavalieri will get him out; I’d bet a month’s pay on it. And he’s got the medic with him.” Macurdy stood. “Sit up, captain,” he said. “Let’s see if I can do anything for your headache.”
Von Lutzow sat up and Macurdy knelt behind him, putting a hand on each side of the spy’s head, holding them there for long seconds, frowning slightly, then moved one to the forehead on the other opposite. After another ten seconds he asked, “How’s that feel?”
Von Lutzow’s jaw had sagged slightly. “The headache’s not half what it was!”
“Good.” Macurdy removed one hand, while the fingers of the other traced lines in the space immediately above Von Lutzow’s bandaged scalp. This continued for perhaps half a minute, then he worked his fingers gently down the spine, pausing here and there while his fingertips wove patterns, shifting threads of energy. Von Lutzow only blinked. Finally Macurdy sat back. “How’s the scalp?”
“Tingles like a son of a bitch, but the burning’s gone. The headache too, now.” Von Lutzow’s monotone had been replaced by thoughtfulness.
A nearby voice commented, with an accent that reminded Macurdy of the Saari brothers. “My mother would love to watch you, sarge,” Luoma said. “She’s always talking about stuff her grandma did like that, back in the old country.”