Mac wingate 6, p.9
Mac Wingate 6, page 9
Mac couldn’t do any good with his Sten from this angle, but the men among the trees were helping as well as they could, given the distance and the protection the pagoda afforded the snipers.
Walters was dropped by Snow Queen a few feet away from Mac. Then the Norwegian resistance fighter tumbled over to Wingate, coming up in a crouch after a perfectly executed somersault. For some reason the MILORG agent couldn’t crouch completely. After Snow Queen pulled aside one side of the monkish garment, Mac could see why. In a special harness across the front, the agent had a Suomi submachine gun, model 1931.
Snow Queen wrenched out the weapon, cocking it behind the rear cap of the receiver. Wingate was pleased by its appearance. It gave them a better chance of getting to the snipers with no bodily parts missing. As he watched, Snow Queen reached down along one leg and pulled out a 71-round drum from another special holster. The agent slammed it home, then rose to a sitting position.
“Cover me,” the agent said in Norwegian. Wingate was initially surprised by the light timbre of the voice, but he had no time to ruminate on it. Snow Queen was up and scrambling over the rocks toward the stone wall.
Wingate unconsciously reached inside his jacket for one of his four grenades until he realized that they had gone down with the Allied ship. Or up with the C-2 explosion, as the case may be. Instead, he rolled out from cover, shouting for his men to do the same. He came up on one knee facing the pagoda, his Sten aimed at the third level.
He emptied his rounds, hearing the forest behind him erupt with sound. As the Sten clicked on an empty chamber, he threw the weapon down and pulled out his Browning. He was up and running, glancing at both the third level and the cover fire behind him.
The sight was inspiring. Each commando had broken cover and was blasting away with his gun as the other MILORGs had each magically produced another Suomi, all with 50-round boxes or 71-round drums. And that weapon smashed out a stunning 900 rounds per minute. The swarm of lead it produced was phenomenal. Actual holes the size of cannonballs appeared in the wall of the pagoda. The flashing of the snipers’ machine gun stopped.
Wingate jumped up the rock hill and vaulted over the stone wall in time to see Snow Queen kick open the two front doors. The American sped after the agent, holding his automatic at the ready.
Snow Queen ran in, dotting the ceiling with bullets by simply holding the Suomi up and pulling the trigger without looking. Instead the agent was seeking out a vantage point to plug the snipers without getting plugged back. Wingate slowed just inside the pagoda doors to search out the ambushers. He spied them almost immediately, dragging a heavy machine gun on a tripod across a wooden catwalk with banisters that stretched across to balconies on both the front and back walls.
Wingate picked up speed, changed direction, and ran until he could see one of the two men trying to pull the weapon to a safe place. They were not Nazis. At least they were not in Nazi uniforms.
He brought his Browning up and blasted away at the retreating pair. His 9 mm bullets chipped away at the wood all around them, but didn’t touch the snipers. It was enough, however, to panic the man behind the gun. Without thinking, he pivoted the barrel in Wingate’s direction and pulled the trigger.
The sharp, thick bullets ripped through the floorboards at Wingate’s feet, and as he threw himself aside, the lead blasted out the side wall. Most of the action happened behind the gun. Since the tripod wasn’t secure on a flat surface, the machine gun bucked like an enraged bull, catching the sniper in the chest, then pushing up under his chin. His shirt was ripped open by the force, a quarter-inch gouge was ripped into the flesh of his chest, and his jaw was broken by the concussion.
The wounded sniper was vaulted over the side of the catwalk’s banister to fall almost two stories to the pagoda floor. He spun lazily, fell on his side, bounced, and landed heavily on his back, spread-eagled. Wingate wasn’t taking any chances. He quickly shot the body in the head.
He returned his attention to the second man just as the surviving sniper dropped the machine gun and ran as fast as he could toward the back wall. Snow Queen waited until the sniper was almost parallel to the barrel of the Suomi, then opened fire. The protecting banister was cut away by the lead, which then punched into the second sniper’s body. They made him dance for a moment, then threw him off the catwalk to follow his partner down to the wooden floor.
Snow Queen didn’t need to make sure of the second man’s demise. Lowering the smoking Suomi, the agent silently walked past Wingate and back outside. The American put his gun back in its holster and followed.
No one was lazing around outside either. The entire group of Allies and MILORG agents were collected in front of the pagoda’s double doors. Wingate saw Walters’s sleeve and right pant leg ripped open. A makeshift bandage had been wrapped around his upper arm, but his now revealed leg showed only a thick scrape and a thin scratch. The machine gun bullets must have just missed him as Snow Queen had knocked him over. Wingate held little doubt that had the agent not intervened, the bullets would have ripped Walters open like so much newspaper.
Walters didn’t say anything, just stared at Wingate, not smiling this time. Wingate remained silent as well, just imperceptibly shaking his head as he followed the MILORGs, who were already marching behind the pagoda and into the forest beyond. The commandos followed the captain, with the two colonels bringing up the rear.
Silence reigned for a while longer while Wingate found himself walking abreast of Snow Queen’s aide. The cowled agent looked at Mac, revealing a young-looking mouth and chin with a few days’ stubble.
“Snow Queen wants to thank you for your help,” he said in Norwegian. “You are a good shot.”
“Can’t Snow Queen speak for himself?” Mac replied irritably.
The aide ignored what Mac had said. “Snow Queen knew snipers used the Nordic pagoda. Snow Queen had seen countrymen die there before.”
“Those weren’t Germans” Wingate said, taking another tack.
“No,” the MILORG said gravely. “They were Nasjonal Samling members. Quislings.” The aide said the word with disgust. “Norwegians, but traitors still. They deserve to die.”
Wingate reacted to the MILORG’s passion with indifference. Anyone who shot at him deserved to die. Outside of the basic concept of defeating Hitler, Wingate didn’t think of war as a cause to die for. He thought of it as a cause to kill for. And the plain practicality of killing is that one had to be alive to do it.
He agreed with Patton. The object, the great general had said, is not to die for your country, but to make the other poor, dumb bastard die for his. As long as Allied Command kept shoving bombs and guns into his hands, it was a point of view Wingate would subscribe to.
The group moved on through forest that was denser than before. Just as Wingate was beginning to feel that he would never see civilization again, a small hillside village appeared. It was made up of what the Norse called goattes, small teepee like tents and a long stabbur, or barracks like barn. Wingate noted a gray shale mountain rising above the tiny town and a winding narrow road that ran down into a cloud-covered valley below. The serenity of the place was complete. There were small fields of grain dotting the outskirts, and various animals, like goats and sheep, wandering around. But the American saw no other people but the hooded MILORGs as they entered the barn building.
Inside the wooden structure were several plain, two-wheeled carts made to be pulled by one man each. On top of these devices were plain, peasant garments. Snow Queen seemingly ignored and moved past these things, disappearing out the other side of the stabbur. Wingate was about to follow, when the aide stopped him.
“You must stay,” he said. “Snow Queen will prepare the way.” He explained that they couldn’t chance walking into the town of Alten as they were. They couldn’t risk a Nazi spying them. So several MILORG agents would accompany them disguised as simple merchants.
“You.” The aide pointed at Neill. “And you,” he said to Wingate, “will also help. Please change now.”
Walters and Sumner were put atop one cart, Tyler and Baker were on another. Biggins had one all to himself. Green tarps were put over them and secured with boxes placed strategically so the cart top had the proper look. Mac and Neill changed for the third time, into the common street garb of gray pants and rubber boots, light blue shirt, drab blue raincoats, and a simple gray cap.
The aide took off his monk habit to reveal a young, dark-haired Norwegian. Another MILORG threw back his cowl to reveal an older, plainer-looking man.
“He will act as my father,” the aide explained, kicking off the garment. Beneath the garments, both wore generally what the Allies had changed into. “You will be my brother,” he told Wingate, “and he, the white-haired man, my ... uncle.”
Wingate translated for Neill, adding, “His deaf and, if you know what’s good for you, dumb uncle.” The Canadian got the message.
“Do not stop for anything,” the aide said, shrugging on his own thin, knee-length coat. “We will take care of everything.” Without another word, the MILORG “father” took the Walters and Sumner cart and moved out of the barn. Wingate grabbed the Tyler and Baker one, leaving Neill to haul Biggins. He trusted Sumner to quell any complaints about a rough ride Walters might make and he trusted Neill to be powerful enough to handle Breaker’s girth.
The cart convoy moved down an unsurprisingly steep, inordinately curved road. It seemed as if they were making a U-turn every two hundred yards. They would walk southwest, then southeast, then southwest again, southeast, then straight down south, then, strangely, moving down still but in the opposite direction they had been traveling before. Wingate felt like a marble bouncing off outcroppings along a bottomless pit.
Even more surprising was that the road was smooth and seemingly unaffected by the generally inclement weather and the sharp, twisting turns. “How is a road like this possible?” Neill asked in honest amazement.
The aide took a moment to look back at the Canadian. When Wingate translated, the man smiled. “No one is sure,” he answered whimsically. “We attribute the engineering feat to the mountain trolls.”
Wingate translated back. “Mountain trolls,” Neill repeated. “Right.”
“No more talk!” the MILORG father said sharply. Neill needed no translation.
The road with its snaking curves was one thing, but the eeriest part of the trip was dropping down into the solid, puffy white blanket of mist that hung over the valley. All the men could do was look at their feet to be sure they were still on the path, and listen carefully to the creaking wheels of the other carts nearby.
For a few minutes, that creaking was drowned out by the sounds of rushing water, but then they dipped under the mist and saw a few cottages on one side of the road. Although solid and well maintained in the more mountainous regions, the road changed from stone to dirt as soon as it reached the first dwelling’s foundation. It may act as a boundary line, Wingate thought.
The group of cart pullers never touched the dirt way, however. As soon as the simple yellow house with the two chimneys grew near, the aide pulled his cart off the road and trotted to a cellar entrance at the side of the place. Wingate came up as the MILORG men pulled the doors open. There was a board laid across the steps downward to facilitate the carts. The MILORG son and father lowered theirs quickly, then came back to help both Wingate and Neill with theirs.
As they closed the doors and locked them from the inside, Wingate took in the new surroundings. The small size of the house above them was misleading. The cellar was cavernous and lit by candles positioned in various places on the floor. The only interruption between the stones of the walls were rugged wooden support beams secured in the hard, cold dirt of the floor and the heavy beams of the ceiling.
The MILORG aide threw off the tarps and waved everyone up. He then picked up a candle and walked quickly away. Mac followed, expecting to see another door appear from the gloom. Instead the Norwegian disappeared into a tunnel opening in the opposite wall. He turned a corner and the light seemed to go out. The American hastily made the turn himself to see the dim, flickering light appear before him again. He heard the footsteps of the others behind him. He hoped no one was claustrophobic. If any of them were, at least he didn’t hear about it.
They continued down the now straight tunnel until Mac could feel moisture around his shoes. The sloshing was just momentary, then the way inclined upward. Finally the way ended in front of a dirt-lined door. The aide unlatched it and pulled it back. He motioned for Wingate to follow in silence. The American turned and made the same movement, which was repeated down the line. The MILORG father brought up the rear, closing the door behind him with nary a whisper.
The nine men then traversed an even narrower passage, made bearable only by the golden light that streamed in on one side of the slatted, wooden walls. As he went, Wingate glanced through these narrow cracks, seeing glimpses of carpentry and furniture. He realized that they were inside the walls of a house, following a secret passage that lay between the walls of the inside room and the outside wall.
The passage ended at a bedroom. The aide slid open a simple panel, moved some hanging curtains aside, and waved the men past him.
It was a pretty grim place, cheered only by a comfortable-looking bed and some antique furniture. Otherwise the walls were dank stone and drab wood, the ceiling was low, and the floor uneven. A fireplace flickered to one side.
The men spread out, trying to find a little space in the wide room, which seemed smaller than it actually was. The low ceiling and the thick curtains and carpets that hung on the walls created that effect. The floor, too, was strewn with thick rugs, overlapping to muffle the hardest of footfalls. Walters moved unerringly over to the bed, holding his arm, groaning, and lying down before anyone else could lay claim to it.
“This is below ground,” the aide said, trying to explain the situation. “There is more than one room. Enough for you all. You will be safe here. Snow Queen has seen to it.”
“Where is Snow Queen?” Wingate wondered.
As before, the aide ignored any attempts to find out more about the resistance fighter. “You will wait here.”
“I would like to thank Snow Queen personally,” Wingate pressed.
“You will wait,” the aide repeated, turning.
Before anything else could happen, a hooded MILORG swept into the room from the other side. The agent swept aside some of the curtains, revealing an entrance to another room.
“All went well?” the agent asked in a soft voice Wingate recognized as that of Snow Queen. The aide nodded. “God,” Snow Queen said, the Norse word for “good.” The aide nodded again and left the room by the secret passageway.
“S’goo!” Snow Queen told everyone. “The man who speaks our language, come with me. We must talk.”
Wingate moved forward, a strange thought taking shape in his mind. He watched Snow Queen’s figure carefully as he translated for the others. “Check the layout. See if there are any other exits.”
“Wingate,” Walters said from the bed, “where are you going?”
“Snow Queen wants to talk with me.”
“I should be included in this!”
“Sorry, sir, there’s nothing I can do,” Wingate said with satisfaction. “You told me yourself; I’m the head of the mission and am at the service of MILORG.”
“Wingate!”
“Just rest, sir,” Wingate advised as he followed Snow Queen between the curtains. “Keep your strength up.” Wingate watched Snow Queen move ahead of him. The cowled agent was taller than Mac by an inch and moved with the fluid assurance of a dancer. The monks’ garment still disguised the shape, but Wingate noticed the hands were encased in thick gloves. But not thick enough to prevent the forefinger from wrapping around the trigger of a Suomi.
They moved silently up another passage to another set of curtains. The room inside was the final clue to the theory Wingate had been working on. So he wasn’t surprised when Snow Queen threw back the cowl.
Snow Queen was a woman.
The only thing that surprised Wingate was that she was a beautiful woman. A truly strong, stunning female who looked as if she had Amazonian blood mixed in her Nordic heritage. First, there was the height. If she wasn’t six feet tall, she was mighty close. Her whitish-blond hair fell down to her neck, where it rolled atop both shoulders. Just like the aide, she was wearing drab, simple clothes beneath the burnous, but it couldn’t completely hide her solid, attractive shape. She wore no makeup, but the cold weather gave her color. The well-circulating Norse blood reddened her high cheeks and thin lips. Her nose too was thin, but not sharp, and her eyes were blue beneath blond brows and lashes.
The brows narrowed a bit as she examined Wingate’s placid expression. She was slightly disappointed she had not taken him aback. “I am Kirsten,” she said, holding out her hand.
The fingers were long, the palm was solid, the nails were short, and the entire hand was somewhere between the description of shapely and strong. Mac shook her hand. She must have prided herself on her grip, because she squeezed hard and just once.
“I am Wingate,” he answered. “And I love you.”
Her laugh was short, but honest. It was he who took her by surprise and it broke the ice. Mac had long ago lost the illusion that war was not for women. Women made some of the best fighters. They were cunning, thorough, vindictive, and best of all, not readily suspected. Certainly very few of them were in uniform, and none of those were on the front line aiming a gun. But those battles managed to touch everyone, even innocent women. And Wingate had more respect for those who prepared themselves for it than those who let themselves be mowed down.
This girl, certainly, had proved herself to be a major mower, rather than a victim. She moved around the relatively sumptuous bedroom, getting rid of the monk trappings as she went. Mac stood in place, taking in the view. The bed took up the center portion of the room. It was canopied, and decked out in colors of crimson. Beyond that was a rich-looking bureau, with scattered cosmetics and a large, circular mirror, gilt around the designed edges. On the side of the bed where Mac was standing was a plush easy chair in blue with deep purple arm covers. Next to that was a working fireplace.
