The Second Objective by Mark Frost Read Free Book Online Page A

laughed, blew smoke, enjoying himself. Twenty yards into the woods, they dropped Mallory’s body beside Ellis under a thick stand of evergreens. A gust of wind stirred the branches overhead, dropping clots of wet snow on them.
    “Why’d you have to kill Schieff?” asked Bernie.
    “He was gut shot, he wouldn’t have lasted an hour—”
    “We could’ve treated him, taken him for help—”
    “He knew the risks. Besides, you heard what our friendly sergeant said back there,” said Von Leinsdorf, tapping Mallory’s boot with his. “Americans ride three men to a jeep. You’d think our fearless leaders might have picked up that little detail, eh, Brooklyn?”
    Von Leinsdorf leaned down, opened their shirts, and slipped the dog tags off Mallory and Ellis.
    “Cover the bodies,” he said, tossing the tags to Bernie. “Take their ID, jackets, weapons, anything else we can use. You’re driving.”
    Bernie caught the tags and dropped them into his pocket. His nightmare had come to life; American blood on his hands. Four men dead in less than five minutes. And Von Leinsdorf seemed to like it. He was practically humming as he walked away. But how long now before they became the hunted?
    He saw Mallory’s foot twitch once as he rifled through the man’s field jacket. He leaned down and realized Mallory was still breathing.
    Once Von Leinsdorf was out of sight, Bernie took a sulfa packet, bandages, and an ampule of morphine from his pocket, and knelt down beside the gravely wounded sergeant.

 

    6

    Southwest of Liège, Belgium
    DECEMBER 14, 9:00 P.M.

    E arl Grannit leaned out the window of the engine car and looked back along the length of the U.S. Army transport train, eleven freight cars trailing behind them as they rounded a broad turn. He gazed out at the smooth moonlight glancing off the Meuse River as it flashed through the trees, then at his watch under the bare bulb of the cab. He shoveled more coal into the firebox while he waited for his engineer to finish a call on the radio, talking to dispatch.
    “How close are we?” asked Grannit, over the roar of the engine, when the call ended.
    “Four miles,” said the engineer. “Next station’s Clermont.”
    “What about our backup?”
    “Says they’re all in place. Ready to go.”
    “Famous last words,” said Grannit.
    “Think they’re gonna make a move, Earl?”
    “I’ll take a look.”
    Grannit swung outside on the handrail, found his footing, and inched back along the ledge rimming the coal car. He stepped across to the first freight car, climbed the ladder to the roof, set himself, and looked ahead down the tracks. He could already make out the Clermont station lights piercing the night in the distance. Then he spotted a crossing in the foreground, where two cars were flashing their headlights toward the oncoming train. The engine had already started to slow; he heard the whining steel grind of the brakes.
    At least half a mile short of the station.
    “Shit. Shit, shit.”
    By the time Grannit worked his way back to the engine car, the train had nearly come to a complete stop.
    “That was the signal, wasn’t it?” asked the engineer, looking wide-eyed. “I was supposed to stop, right?”
    “Yeah, Ole,” said Grannit. “You were supposed to stop.”
    Four men were moving toward them alongside the tracks from the crossroads, flashlight beams zigzagging. Grannit grabbed a lantern and jumped down to meet them.
    “Hey, how’s it going there?” said the man leading the way.
    The others behind him hung back. Two wore trench coats with raised collars, peaked hats silhouetted black against the sky. Officers.
    The advance man stepped into the light of Grannit’s lantern. He was short, energetic, pounding a wad of gum, the flat rasp of Jersey or Philly in his voice. Grannit eyed his insignia; corporal, battalion quartermaster’s staff.
    “Eddie Bennings, Company C,” he said, offering a glad hand. “You new to the unit?”
    “Just last week.