“Retrieve the prisoner. We leave for the plateau in fifteen minutes.”
As the sun climbed within an hour of high noon, R. J. MacCready emerged from the dense forest into a clearing. He took the opportunity to sneak another backward glance, but as before, the SS sergeant was still there, machine gun trained at the center of his back. Since their departure, Mac had been trying hard not to think about the consequences of the Big Guy tripping over a root or getting bitten by a wasp. Instead, he concentrated on the visual inventory he had made before leaving the German camp: heavy equipment, piles of supplies, and a shitload of construction going on, all of it well hidden by the forest and the damnable fog that shrouded the valley. Then there was the fuel, stored in huge pressurized tanks. His overall impression was that the site’s high secrecy quotient had something to do with the strange missile they’d fired at the recon plane. But why set up a base here? he wondered. Whatever they’re up to, they’re building something big.
MacCready now feared that weapons similar to the guided interceptor that had taken down the recon plane were being prepared to reach out from Brazil. And whatever the specifics of their plan might be, he knew that he had to escape, or at least get this information back to Hendry. Especially now that Bob and Yanni are gone, he thought.
Although it could never make up for the murder of his friends, he took some satisfaction in the knowledge that the Germans had suffered their own casualties at the hands of the draculae. Just as important, he knew that these deaths had made Wolff and his pals extremely eager to learn the real identity of the creatures, a fact that was currently keeping him alive.
At this point, what harm would come of identifying the phantoms to his enemies? It was the sort of information that he could barter safely in the hope of completing his mission, in time to prevent them from completing theirs—whatever that is. In a horrible run of misfortune and tragedy, this had indeed become a bit of good fortune.
Up ahead, the front half of Wolff’s group had stopped beside a river. It was about forty feet wide and although the water appeared to be no more than waist-deep, the current was moving at a fairly dangerous clip.
He could see that the two local guides, who had gone ahead of the group several minutes earlier, were already standing on the far bank. One of them was using his bow to point out a presumably safe path for Wolff and the others to follow across the boulder-strewn waterway.
One by one, the members of Wolff’s hunting party hoisted their packs higher and waded in at the indicated spot, soon leaving only MacCready and his hulking escort to bring up the rear.
MacCready scanned the far bank. He found it odd that the second guide had moved to a position slightly upstream from his friend and the continuation of the trail.
What’s this guy up to?
The Indian stood on the rocks and waited until the Germans were distracted by the precarious crossing, then he let loose a stream of his own.
Nice move, MacCready thought, his gaze tracking from the arc of urine to the place where Wolff’s men were making their way across the stream. He slowed down just enough to avoid a shove into the current from the hulk, allowing time enough for the end results of the guide’s “private salute” to pass downstream.
MacCready had waded about halfway across when unexpectedly one of the soldiers approaching the far bank began screaming and thrashing about violently. Everyone else froze for a moment, but just as quickly weapons were drawn and each man scanned a section of tree line for signs of an ambush.
Meanwhile, the weight of the stricken soldier’s pack had flipped him onto his back like a turtle, allowing MacCready and the others to see that he was clutching at the front of his pants. The man began to float downriver.
Before the soldier could drift very far, though, Colonel Wolff shouted something and two men splashed over and intercepted their frantic comrade. Grabbing him under the arms, the pair staggered the last ten feet to the shore. There the screaming man immediately fell to the ground and began tearing at the buttons of his field pants.
Instinctively, MacCready checked to see if the sudden commotion might have sidetracked the SS sergeant. As expected, the giant had maintained not only his distance but also his concentration.