The Haigerloch Project

“I was going to give a pack to each one of you,” Rosenfeld added magnanimously. “But I thought I'd make it easy on you. You can share — if you can agree on how to do it….”

Dirk gave the pack a kick with his boot. Rosenfeld shook his head reprovingly.

“Temper,” he admonished. “I'd treat the thing with some respect. Don't be too rough on it. You see, there is one more thing in there. A glass Mason jar. Resting nicely among the rocks.” He paused significantly. “I want to see that jar whole at the end of the run.” He smiled. “You can think of it as the precious little tubes in your X-35!”

Dirk gave him a dirty look. He glanced at Sig, who had looked on in silence. Resignedly he bent down, lifted the heavy pack and slung it on his back, shrugging his arms through the shoulder straps. He hefted it, testing its ride.

“Let's get on with it,” he grumbled. He took up his waiting position on the ground.

Slim brought out a stopwatch.

“Okay, this is it,” he said with great originality. “I won't raise my voice.” He nodded toward the sentry standing in the distance, his back to them. “Wouldn't want to alert Station Two, would we?” He held up his hand—

Sig was aware of his heart racing, pumping adrenalin through his system. He stared at the ten-foot fence in front of him. He'd never get over it….

The instructor's hand came down.

“Go!”

Dirk was on his feet at once. Without a word, he whirled on Sig. He held up his hand, stopping him from rushing at the fence. Quickly he pointed to himself — then to Sig Not waiting to find out if he had been understood, he ran to the nearest wooden pole holding up the barbed wire. Alternately placing a foot close to the pole on one side or the other of the wire fastened to it, he used it as a spike-studded ladder, quickly reaching the top. He switched over precariously — the heavy pack threatening to throw him off balance — and swarmed down the other side.

Sig had started up right behind him. He was excited and awed at Dirk's instant leap to action. Would he himself have thought of using the pole? He was shocked to realize he had given no thought to how to scale the fence. Wincing as one of the sharp barbed-wire spikes cut the fleshy part of his left hand, he was over the top and starting down the other side.

Dirk had discarded the pack. It was lying on the ground. He was already cat-running toward the tensely listening sentry. He stopped within twenty feet. Sig stood stock still, watching him, hardly daring to breathe. Slowly, stealthily Dirk crept up on the sentry. Ten feet.

The sentry switched his weight from one foot to the other. Dirk froze. Sig felt his heart skip a beat — then pound the next one. Silently Dirk moved again. Five feet. Suddenly he leaped forward, striking the man a blow on his neck with his outstretched hand. The man fell to the ground.

Sig sprang into action. Grabbing the pack — My God! Did forty pounds weigh that much? — he ran toward Dirk, already at the vehicle. The grinning guard was sitting on the ground.

The vehicle was a German BMW R750 motorcycle combination. Ten days ago he'd never heard of one, let alone seen it. Now he and Dirk had to fix it — and drive it.

The cycle was battered and the sand-colored paint chipped. Must have picked the damned thing up in North Africa, Sig thought, as he carefully placed the pack on the ground. The spoked spare wheel was missing from the back deck of the side car, but the two Wehrmacht plates were still on — the long, curved one along the front-wheel fender and the one in the rear under the taillight. WH727694. The bike had been stripped of its armament — the MG34 unbolted from its seat.

Dirk was already astride the bike. He tried to start it up. The engine turned over — but did not catch. He stared at the motor. He made an adjustment. He tried again. No go.

Sig stepped closer.

Dirk was poring over the bike engine. He was frowning.

“The hot wire,” Sig said suddenly. “From the coil to the distributor. Check it. It could be loose.”

“Got you.”

Dirk peered at the engine. The damned hot wire was difficult to see. Figured. There—

“That's it,” he said.

He worked quickly.

“Grab the damned pack and hop in!” he snapped. He gunned the bike. It roared to life.

Spurting gravel, they took off down the dirt road — half a mile to Station #4….

Station #4 was at the stream. The flow had been widened to a width of about twelve feet. They were instructed to leap across it — preferably without getting their feet wet. When Sig had inspected it earlier, it had not seemed too difficult. What was the world-record broad jump? Better than twenty-six feet? Hell, this was less than half. But as Dirk brought the bike to a sliding halt at the stream's edge, it looked to Sig twice as wide as before — and his combat boots suddenly weighed a ton. Each.

“Throw me the pack,” Dirk called. He took a running start and leaped across the stream.

Sig swung the heavy pack a couple of times and hurled it out over the water. He was aware of the station instructor watching them. Dirk caught it.