"So what’s next?” Adler asked.
"I think we should make a sweep of the uncle’s place. Manfred can drop us off and keep our gear in the truck."
Adler winked at Manfred and said, "Clever of you to have that false bottom in the bed of your truck, sir."
Manfred acknowledged the comment with a bow of his head and smiled. "It has come in handy many times. When I'm not carrying potatoes into Berlin, I bring in coal." A deep, hearty laugh exploded from within him. "You, my friends, will become coal miners, hidden beneath layers of black coal."
Adler grinned. "I can think of some worse places I've been, sir!"
Grant zipped up the rucksack, stood and walked over to the cot, propping his foot on the edge and resting his arm on top of his knee. "After Manfred picks us up from the uncle’s place, he can drive us into the city. Once we've made it past the guards, we'll head for the factory. Manfred's already checked it out and said there's plenty of activity and that’ll be to our advantage. Welders are putting in long hours working on barge components. So we should be able to get away unnoticed. While you check out the flat, I'll check that tunnel."
"You got the key to the flat that Lampson gave you?" Adler asked.
"It's in that leather case," Grant answered as he pointed at Adler's gear.
"You think she's made any appearances there since we got Lampson?"
Grant shook his head. "Doubt it, unless there was something special she needed."
Adler rubbed his eyes, eyes that were tired and bloodshot. "What kind of timeframe are we talking?"
"I'll meet you at the flat. We'll hang out there till just before daylight and Manfred can meet us." He pulled his knife from a leather sheath and ran the razor-sharp edge across the back of his wrist.
"Think we'll have any unexpected company while we're there?" Adler smirked.
With the tip pointed toward the ceiling, Grant swiveled the weapon back and forth in front of his face, a weapon that had seen him through a few life and death encounters. With a cold stare that could send a violent chill up anyone’s back but Adler's, he responded in a deep, low voice, "If we do, then that'll just be their bad luck, won't it?"
He looked at the old man, who'd drifted off to sleep, his head sagging down. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm with his snoring. Grant poked an elbow against Joe's arm, motioning with his head. "It's been a long day for all of us. We'd better catch some Zs, too."
Adler stood and brushed dirt from his pants. "Should we wake him up?"
Grant shook his head, then reached for a blanket on the end of the cot. He draped it over the front of Manfred, drawing it up to the man's whiskered chin.
"Why don't you take the cot?" Adler said, as he was spreading another blanket on the ground. "You know I'm the camping type. Besides, you senior officers do need your Sealy's."
Grant reached for his flashlight and shot its beam directly into Adler's eyes. "How's your night vision?"
Adler blinked and chuckled. "Smart ass… sir!"
Grant dimmed the kerosene lamp, then tucked the flashlight under his pillow. He folded his arms behind his head, staring up towards the trapdoor that concealed their presence. Shards of light from the early morning sun penetrated irregular spaces between the weathered roof timbers covering the shed, making their way down through knot holes in the trapdoor. Grant stared at the beams of light, feeling his body breaking out in a cold sweat, and hearing his heart pounding in his ears. His eyes locked onto the pencil-thin light beams, bringing back images in his mind that were all too real, all too unsettling.
As a kid living in California, he and two friends had been buried in an underground pipe by a rockslide. A grate had covered an old water shed drain that had been condemned. As soon as the kids went in, it collapsed.
Grant's mind went back to that time, seeing again the light beams through the rocks and the crumpled grate that had caused a slight air space for them to survive until they were rescued nearly twelve hours later. It wasn't the only time Grant Stevens had felt as though he was trapped like an animal.
In February of 1969, Grant and Chief Marty Kilborn parachuted behind enemy lines into North Vietnam, just above the DMZ (demilitarized zone). Their mission — locate and destroy an NVA (North Vietnamese Army) communication's and mortar site set up inside a former POW camp. But something went terribly wrong. Their mission had been compromised — a leak. The NVA had laid a trap. The two SEALs had hidden themselves just outside the perimeter of the camp, observing the activity for a full day and night. The plan called for them to set off the explosives by 0200 hours, then get the hell out before the air strike.
After the guards around the main hut had been eliminated, they were preparing to set the explosives when Grant's instincts started talking to him. But it was too late. A booby-trapped floor blew up, throwing him and Kilborn into a ten foot deep pit, both of them knocked unconscious. Debris of wood, palm fronds, and dirt rained on top of them, covering their existence. But the hole would become their safe refuge, and as they regained consciousness, the air strike began. Minutes later, an eerie quiet settled over them. The filth and smells of the hell hole made it obvious they weren't the first to occupy the pit. American POWs suffered and probably died there. That's what touched Grant Stevens so deeply. As the dust cleared, the SEALs scrambled out of the pit, racing through the thick jungle to the LZ, waiting for extraction.
When Manfred first brought him to this safe room, he had fleeting moments of those same memories, those same feelings. Thanks to Manfred's company and all the years that had allowed him to deal with his personal monster, he was able to shake off those feelings — but never completely.
Two figures, with rucksacks slung over their shoulders and running in a zigzag pattern, came down a knoll on the western side of the property. Covering the ground beneath drooping boughs of fir trees, patches of ice crystals from an early morning frost crunched beneath their shoes. Grant and Adler finally lodged themselves in between two rock formations approximately 1,200 yards from the farmhouse.
The tree line came within one hundred fifty yards of the cottage where Lampson and Greta had stayed. The shingled main house was situated a hundred yards in front of it. Access to the house was provided by an irregular, compacted dirt drive, stretching fifty feet from the house to as far as the eye could see. Firewood was stockpiled the whole length of the house on the southern side.
Adler had the binoculars pressed against his eyes, watching for any movement in and around the farm. "Don't see any sign of life," he confirmed.
Manfred told them that if the farmers wanted to make their living off the land, they had to join an agricultural co-op. Grant pointed to a section of land directly ahead of them, on the southern side of the property. "Looks like that area was farmed at one time, but not lately. Any farm equipment?"
Adler made another sweep with the binoculars. "No barn, no equipment."
The smell of pine and smoke from distant fireplaces mingled in the air, being carried on a northerly breeze. "On a cold morning like this, wouldn't you expect to see some smoke from that fireplace?" Grant asked.
"Yeah, I caught a whiff as we came over the rise, but it must've come from the place we passed in the truck."
"You thinking what I'm thinking?"
Adler secured the binoculars in the sack. "You bet. You wanna go knock on the door?" he grinned.
"Let's not get carried away here," Grant responded as he pulled a .45 from his shoulder holster. He ejected the clip, checked it, rammed it back up into the handle, then jacked back the slide. He gave Adler a sideways glance. "Leave the gear here. You go first."