Wolff hated the thought of leaving the plateau without proof that the man was dead, yet there was no alternative.
Standing before his men, the colonel noted that the group had grown smaller by three since their last briefing. They were gathered near the cave entrance just outside a newly hung mist net, which he hoped would prevent the surviving bats from getting out. The shredded, scorched, and bloody remains of the first two nets had been cut down and tossed off the cliff. According to plan, they had set additional charges along a fissure that ran along the antechamber threshold and elsewhere. Wolff was taking no chances; the floor was rigged with trip wires.
If MacCready emerges from this entrance he’ll get quite a surprise.
The colonel spoke, keeping his voice low, as if afraid of being overheard. “While it appears that our American prisoner is dead, for the sake of our mission, we must be certain. For that reason, Private Auerbach and Private Schmidt will remain here, halfway down the trail.”
Wolff moved in closer, his gaze alternating between the two men. “Our little camp here will be abandoned soon; at least it will appear that way. You two will keep yourselves hidden and kill anyone or anything that comes down that trail. When you are quite certain that the American’s body is beyond all possibility of resurrection, you will proceed to the base of the trail and wait there, where our indigenous friends will find you.”
The colonel paused while they saluted, then he continued. “Sergeant Vogt and Corporal Kessler, you will descend the trail with our guides. Scour the forest for any sign of the American. If by some chance he has escaped, the Indians will pick up his trail. Should they capture Captain MacCready, please give him my personal regards, then allow our local colleagues to satisfy any curiosity they may have about him. Once they have separated the American from his burdensome life, rendezvous with Auerbach and Schmidt and return to base.”
Sergeant Vogt raised his hand, looking like a schoolboy asking his teacher for permission to pee.
Wolff acknowledged him with a nod.
“Excuse me, Colonel, but what about you? What about the . . . specimen?”
As if to answer the sergeant, there came a sound from below and across the valley, a rhythmic beat that sliced through the late afternoon air, growing steadily louder.
The colonel said nothing but turned instead, focusing his gaze at the double-bladed flying machine that had risen from distant Nostromo’s sea of fog.
Now the men outside the cave entrance could see that there were long black threads extending from the bottom of Dragon I. And as the cargo helicopter gained altitude and moved nearer, they saw that the threads were cables attached to a large steel basket. They all recognized the pilot, identifiable by her unmistakable blond hair.
The Führer’s gifted pet, Wolff thought. Flugkapit?n Hanna Reitsch gave a single wave, and through a swirling cloud of dust Colonel Wolff returned it. His men struggled to secure the front half of the metal cage—which Reitsch deftly placed on the narrow ledge. Kessler and Vogt ran forward carrying the canvas-and-net bag. Animated from within, the bag hung by leather cords beneath a pair of bamboo mist net poles.
“Don’t lay it down!” Wolff shouted, pointing into the enclosure. “Suspend the ends of the poles onto the crossbeams.”
The men did as they were told, but their minds were busy with other issues: dead comrades; the horrible creature struggling within the bag; the very real possibility that more of the monsters would soon come pouring out of the cave entrance; and the certainty that when the giant vampire bats did emerge, there would be hell to pay.
Corporal Kessler tried hard to stow away these thoughts, especially since a more immediate threat to his survival was to secure the pole suspending Colonel Wolff’s specimen to the back half of a cage, which dangled and pitched high above the valley floor. The arrangement presented him with numerous ways to die, none of which involved “a bed, a bottle, and advanced old age.”
R. J. MacCready ran a hand down his right forearm, noting that it had already swollen to one and a half times its normal size. He tried to think positively. If my arms were still tied, this one would’ve burst like an overstuffed sausage.
No, that visual didn’t help.