The Red Line

He would never be found. The only trace of him would be a thick trail of blood leading down the mountain that would disappear in a few days, along with the melting snows.

In the morning, the explosive ordnance team would shake their heads in disbelief. If the sandwiches had arrived thirty seconds later, the commandos’ mission would have been a complete success and America’s chances of strategically controlling the war nearly gone.

• • •

Half the American microwave communications between Germany and England, and from there on to the States, had disappeared with the loss of Langerkopf. The other 120 channels went through a single facility—Feldberg. The only other modern American satellite relay in Germany sat next to the Feldberg communication control station.

As at Langerkopf, the security at Feldberg consisted of a single airman with a 9mm Beretta. The airmen’s M-4s were two miles down a snowy hill at the detachment’s headquarters. Hearing Donnersberg’s warning, the Feldberg night-shift supervisor issued an order for the fifty airmen below to gather their weapons and rush to the top of the mountain. Once more, sleeping Americans were roused.

The Feldberg supervisor placed half his crew, six unarmed men, near the fence line to watch for any sign of the enemy. They had no weapons, so they wouldn’t be able to defend themselves. Nevertheless, they could provide a warning. The six airmen stood in the shadows inside the fence. After a quarter hour in the freezing cold, the airmen were growing far more concerned about the pain in their extremities than the possibility of an enemy attack.

• • •

The five-man killing team sent to eliminate Feldberg was late. Fifteen minutes late. They’d left their safe house on the outskirts of Frankfurt right on schedule. But they’d taken a wrong turn within minutes of starting their journey. Driving a sputtering Opel down unfamiliar streets in the middle of a blizzard, the team leader had missed the turnoff. In the darkness, he’d driven three miles in the wrong direction before realizing his mistake.

The twenty-mile trip to Feldberg was to take no more than fifty minutes, even in this weather. Instead, the commandos had taken ninety to arrive at the end of a deserted farm road near the base of the high mountain. They’d tossed caution to the wind and scrambled up the mountainside at breakneck speed.

At any cost, their target had to be destroyed.

Five black-clad figures, protected by the forest’s oppressive darkness, reached the hilltop. The commandos split up. Three crawled through the snow to the rear of the compound. The communication tower and satellite ground equipment was their objective. The second team moved toward the front gate. The American guard shack was right in front of them.

The first team muffled their wire cutters and snipped a hole in the chain link near the tower.

From the shadows, an airman screamed, “Someone’s at the fence! Intruders near the tower! Intruders! Intruders!”

A commando crawled inside the wire, drew his knife, and hurled it toward the sound. The knife’s blade found its target. The voice in the darkness shrieked. The wounded airman dropped to his knees, clutching at the knife deep within his chest. The remaining killers rushed through the hole. The trio was upon the airman in a flash. The American let out a final scream.

“Dammit! Where the hell are you guys?” the shift supervisor screamed into the telephone. “We’re under attack up here!”

“Hang tight. They left five minutes ago. Should be there anytime.”

Ten cars were churning up the steep, snow-covered roadway. They were nearing the top. The guard leaped from the shack and drew his Beretta. He fired two rounds toward the tower. The sound of his firing crackled through the windswept night. The hurried shots missed everything.

The second set of assassins was hidden in the trees fifteen feet from the guard shack. They opened up with their machine pistols. The guard went down.

The commandos’ mission had been foiled. The pair stepped from the forest and ran inside the gate. Each blindly fired automatic rifle bursts into the walls of the prefabricated aluminum communication control building. The rounds ripped through the thin metal walls and tore into the communication equipment. Half the critical equipment on the Feldberg to Martlesham Heath, England, link was torn to shreds. Sixty of Feldberg’s 120 channels to England disappeared as the gunfire tore the sophisticated electronics equipment apart.

The commandos stopped to reload. They could hear the automobiles coming up the hill. The cars were growing louder by the second. Both turned toward the ominous sound.

One of the Americans was standing undetected in the area behind the night shift’s row of parked cars. He crept over to his own. He opened the driver’s door and crawled inside. Lying flat on the floorboard, he dug his keys from his pocket. The airman shoved the key into the ignition.

In one motion, he bolted upright and started the engine. The airman threw the car into gear and floored it. Tires spinning wildly, the car fishtailed. It smashed into the car next to it and spun back to the left. With snow flying from every crevice, it roared straight for the menacing black figures near the gate. The assassins turned toward the onrushing car. At the last possible instant, the commando leader dove out of the way. The other saboteur froze. The car smashed into the stationary figure, scooped him up, and, in a mighty crash, impaled him on the fence.

The leader leaped to his feet. He ran to the car. With blood streaming down his face, the driver looked up. The airman’s eyes held an instant of recognition. The leader stuck the nose of his machine pistol close to the windshield and squeezed the trigger.

The rescue convoy was quite near.

The sappers at the rear of the compound spotted another of the airmen hiding in the darkness near the building. They opened fire. Half a dozen bullets slammed the American against the wall. His lifeless body crumpled to the ground. Trails of blood oozed down the side of the building.

One of the assassins ripped the satchel from his back. He set the timer for ten seconds and tossed it toward the satellite terminal. The satchel landed within a few feet of the satellite dish. The charge exploded, leaving behind nothing but an unrecognizable mass of twisted, smoldering metal.

The line of cars crested the hill. They roared toward the compound. The commando leader was right in front of them. As they sped toward the gate, the three passengers in the first car stuck their M-4s out the windows. They started firing. Caught in the open, the saboteur ran toward the rear of the facility. His companions waited near the communication tower to cover his escape. They returned the Americans’ fire.

It was an eighty-yard run through deep snows with the soaring cars clipping at his heels. The ruthless killer was in incredible physical condition. But the distance was much too great. Like a pack of hungry wolves, the line of cars raced after the fleeing figure. The commando leader blindly fired as he ran.

The first car closed in for the kill. From twenty yards away, the airmen unleashed a long burst from their M-4s. Lines of bullets danced across the leader’s back. The saboteur somersaulted in the snow. He sprawled forward, face buried deep within the drifts. He was already quite dead.

Nevertheless, the Americans were in no mood to take any chances. For good measure, the speeding car ran over his bloody corpse.

With their leader out of the way, the remaining commandos fired everything they had. A hail of bullets smashed the first automobile’s windshield. The driver took a round to the face. The car spun out of control. The airman sitting next to him grabbed for the steering wheel. It was, however, too late. The speeding car veered to the left and smashed into the base of the burning satellite equipment. The automobile burst into flames. All four airmen were trapped by the raging fires.

The airmen in the next pair of cars raced side by side through the compound. Six M-4s returned the three commandos’ automatic-pistol fire. Two of the invaders fell. The wounded saboteurs dragged themselves toward the hole in

the fence. The opening was just a few feet away. Another burst of gunfire from the swarming Americans, and the pair moved no more. In a desperate attempt to save his own life, the final saboteur ran for the fence. He squeezed through the hole and disappeared into the darkness. Twenty airmen leaped from their cars and raced to the wire. They started firing in the direction the black figure had taken.

The commando wouldn’t get far. The next day they would find his bullet-riddled body in a thorny thicket one hundred yards down the hillside.

• • •