Chapter 25

Schubert and his troop fight the German agents in the abandoned village. Müller blows the railroad. Peters runs to meet the train only to make a confusing discovery. Chaos ensues!

Chapter 25

Peters would never get used to seeing the northern lights, sashaying across the horizon, the audacious glittering of green and red. He’d seen them a hundred times, usually with friends or with his wife, out moose hunting or looking for caribou. His near freezing hands brought him back to the present: he relaxed his grip on the steering wheel, trying to maintain any amount of warmth in his fingers. 

“Stop about a thousand yards from the village. We don’t want to announce our arrival,” Geneviève hollered into Peters’s ear.

A short while later, Peters geared down and pulled up behind a copse of spruce, killing the engine. The clear stillness of the dawn surprised them after enduring the constant throbbing from the exhaust.

“You each know what to do.” She kissed each man on both cheeks. “Keep radio silence until we gain high ground.” 

There was no cover on their approach to the village. There was only darkness. The lack of cover made Geneviève uneasy—this was when luck would either honor them, or not. They made their way slowly and gradually began discerning shapes of buildings. Soon, the village emerged from the darkness, the derelict buildings standing against the tapestry of a billion stars.

Geneviève moved from building to building, pausing, listening. Sunrise was still a few hours away. Where will the enemy wait for the train, she wondered? She judged they would position themselves close enough to access the explosives but far enough for protection. It was anyone’s guess where they were bivouacking. It all came down to the topographic map the enemy had used and whether they were as predictable as Peters hoped.

Geneviève stopped and pointed ahead. Church, she mouthed silently. She cursed the dark. They could stumble over a tripwire at any time. They edged closer. She handed Power the rifle and proceeded to remove the C-3 from her rucksack. In her other hand, she held a spool of fishing line. She slowly traversed across what remained of a primitive village square, tying the line low along the church’s foundation, across the square and ending at a building opposite. The C-3 was cold, so cold she thought at one point that the primer wouldn’t set into the brick. She laid the explosive behind a wall and tied the line to the primer. 

Power followed her into the church—they entered the sanctuary from the side. The roof was mostly intact. The remains of a few hymnals sat on empty pews, chewed by mice and curled from neglect. The altar had collapsed. More than symbolic, Geneviève thought absently. At the rear of the church she spotted the outline of a ladder. Had dry weather and lack of rain preserved it? She moved forward and peered into the belfry. It was difficult to see, but she thought there were rungs as far as the ambient light revealed.

She tested the first rung. It groaned under her weight. Not good, she thought. What I’d do for some rope. She carried as much weight as she thought the rungs would bear. Power’s weight would test the ladder’s reliability. She hoisted on the rifle, radio, binoculars and rucksack. The first rung held as did the second. She looked up—eight more. Finally, she gained the trap door. Thankfully, the last person up the ladder had left the trap open. She slid the rifle across the floor, then the rest of her equipment. The floorboards were rough and splintered. She held on lightly, testing the floor with her palms and pulled herself up. The floor beneath her held and she was nearly up and over when the top rung snapped in two. In the still pre-dawn air it sounded as clear as a rifle shot.

Müller picked up his rifle. “Did you hear that?”

Von Sonnenfeld shook his head. “Moose travel at night. It’s nothing. Conserve your energy.”

A small fire glowed in the room, giving a hint of warmth. The windows had been blacked out with heavy blankets. There weren’t taking any unnecessary risks.

Merde! Geneviève screamed to herself. Power looked into the belfry, relieved to see Geneviève’s feet dangling over the edge. She motioned for him to climb; she would pull him up, hopefully lessening the stress on the ladder. 

Power tested the first rung. He was sweating profusely. It made for violent shivers. Geneviève sensed how quickly he was becoming a liability. Power took the first few rungs like a newborn fawn on a sheet of ice. He looked up at her. Sweat poured from his face. He made it to the second last rung. She reached for his arm and began to pull.

Without warning, the ladder collapsed under his weight. Geneviève gasped, trying to hold on but finally had to let go—he was too heavy. Power fell to the floor and landed awkwardly. It made an awful racket. Dammit, she thought. We’ve just announced our arrival. Beneath her, Power’s breath came in shallow sips—he’d broken his ankle. 

“Take cover behind a pew. You have a shotgun—use it if you have to,” she whispered. Her face disappeared from sight. 

He sat among the rubble, willing himself not scream. He grabbed a stick and bit on it hard…and then he passed out.

“That’s no fucking moose,” Müller whispered.

Von Sonnenfeld held him back. 

“Just who do you think has followed us? That ponce, Schubert?” He laughed. “Murdoch? The nearest police are in Carcross—dead. Sit down and shut up. I need you focused for the detonation.” He turned towards the fire, warming his hands. “Günter, take O’Brien and see what has Müller so nervous.”

“Alpha, this is Bravo. Do you read, over?” Geneviève whispered.

“Alpha here, over,” came Schubert’s voice.

“Power is down. Proceed as planned. Out.”

“What?” Peters asked.

“Power is injured. Geneviève is alone in the belfry.”

Shit, Peters cursed. The plan was already compromised.

Geneviève scanned the village. Dawn was approaching. From her field of view, only a few buildings remained standing. They were scattered about, no indication why some had collapsed while others hadn’t. She continued to glass, slowly traversing the village, stopping, focusing, looking for anything out of place. Then, she swung the glasses back sixty degrees.

There, she thought, and her pulse quickened, two men…careless approach…must be cold…they heard Power fall.

“Alpha, two hostiles on approach, north by northwest. I have visual. Out.”

The two men continued, picking their way through debris and drifts of snow. 

“Günter, start with the church and work your way around,” O’Brien whispered. “I’ll do a perimeter sweep.”

Günter nodded and broke off in a different direction. He entered the church by the rear door and switched on a torch. The church was a church in name only, he thought, so much of it had fallen victim to the elements. The wooden alter had nearly rotted though. The church was small, nearly identical as the one in his village in Bavaria. He moved forward, shining the light in a slow arc. Something caught his eye. He stepped over debris, finally stepping into the little foyer. A man lay on the floor, unconscious. 

Um Gottes willen, he thought. What the hell?

His last thought was what killed him. In that second of confusion Geneviève leaned over and fired twice. The first shot hit him in the top of the head, snapping it back; the second tore through his throat. He died so quickly, it took another second for the body to collapse.

She laid the silenced pistol next to her. “Alpha, one hostile down. Out.” 

“Peters, we’ve got to make our way to the church. Geneviève is alone. If she’s taken, we’re blind without her.”

“No—and I mean no disrespect, sir,” he disagreed. “She’s tougher and smarter than we know. She’ll be alright. We stick to the plan. Firefights go to shit when the plan is chucked.”

The sun finally crested the horizon, leaving everyone exposed. O’Brien crouched behind a wall, listening for Günter. He should be back by now, he thought. He checked his watch: Günter had been gone twenty minutes. That should’ve been plenty of time, he reasoned. He continued to sweep the area when the sun reflected off something ahead of him. He stopped and kneeled close the ground. A trip wire stretched to an empty building across the way.

Geneviève tracked the second man through the rifle scope. It was obvious he’d discovered the tripwire. He was too far to take down with the pistol and he knew how to use cover. She watched him back away and disappear. 

“Alpha, one hostile heading southwest. Over.” She tried to track his movements, catching glimpses of him as he moved from house to house. “Eyes up. Twenty seconds. Out.”

“Someone’s coming our way,” Schubert whispered. 

They stood against a wall, listening for footsteps.

“We need him alive, Peters.”

“No guarantees,” Peters said, breathing heavily. His heart was beating wildly, threatening to overtake him. 

“Breathe into your hands, you’re hyperventilating,” Schubert whispered. 

Peters’ eyes were wide with the memory of fear. There was no disguising the terror in his friend’s face. 

Finally, they heard footsteps over the rubble. 

He’s good, Schubert thought, and nearly silent. 

He remembered hunting bear with his father. He could never understand how something so lethal could traverse a forest floor in silence. Schubert waited, summoning a calm that came from an unknown place. Peters stood on the opposite side of the door frame, his breath still ragged. The man came through, low, not knowing what to expect, leading with his rifle. Peters twisted the rifle from his grasp; Schubert spun around, hitting him with the butt of the shotgun. 

“Bravo, one hostile asleep. Out.”

“Where are they?” Müller demanded. “Why are they late? They should be back by now.”

“Breathe, for God’s sake,” von Sonnenfeld said. “You have one job and that’s to blow that train to hell.”

Von Sonnenfeld brought a thermos of hot tea outside and passed it over to the sentries. His men weren’t usually late, but the cold had a way of slowing men down. Still, he wasn’t about to show any concern in front of Müller. Nevertheless, he’d been thinking the same thing: where were they?

Not far from von Sonnenfeld’s camp, Schubert and Peters stood over their prisoner. Schubert slapped the prisoner awake. Peters held him secure. The man struggled briefly until Schubert pulled Jäger’s dagger. His confusion mounted when Schubert began speaking German.

“You fucked up, you stupid imbecile. You think killing a couple of local cops would do the trick? You left the telegraph intact.” Schubert slapped the man, creating more confusion. “Himmler wouldn’t trust an operation of this magnitude to a bunch of farm boys—we’ve been following you since you landed. Lucky for you, because we only managed to get here a few hours ahead of the Americans.” 

Schubert was feeding him information faster than he could process. Here’s the gamble, Schubert thought, exchanging glances with Peters. 

“Where are Müller and von Sonnenfeld. We need to abort the mission.”

The man struggled harder. 

“Look at him,” Peters said, speaking German. “He hasn’t understood a word you’ve said. He’s English.”

“He’s Irish, I’ll bet.” Schubert said, switching to English. 

“How many of Quinn’s boys are here?” Schubert hissed.

Peters pulled the Fairbairn–Sykes knife from its sheath. The prisoner flinched as the cold steel blade came to rest on his neck. Compared to the elegance and ceremony of the SS dagger, the combat knife had one brutal purpose. 

Peters leaned in and punctured the skin underneath the man’s eye. He stopped struggling. 

“You want to die, right now?” Peters said, his voice suddenly calm. “First, we’ll take your eyes out. Then, your balls will swing free. You’re going to hang anyway, so it doesn’t matter if you die here or somewhere else. Where are your other men?”

The man gestured with his face, his eyes, wild, towards the south. 

“You’re a long way from street thievery,” Schubert whispered. “How many?”

The man shook his head. None.

“He’s lying. Torture is unreliable,” Peters said. “What do we do with him?”

“For now, nothing. Tie him up.”

“He’ll freeze. He’s a liability.”

Before Schubert could react, Peters slit the man’s throat, severing his windpipe. A sickening whistle escaped his throat and his heart pumped like a devil gone wild, spraying blood over Schubert. The body twitched erratically, the sound reminiscent of boots shuffling over stones.

The sun finally crested the horizon. Daylight had arrived. Simpson and Tournamille were in position, at the south end of the village, behind a lift of old railway ties. They sat huddled together, waiting. The cold bled through their clothes. With cold came carelessness.

“…Can’t feel…feet,” Simpson stuttered, his words lost to a cloud of breath. He had a feeling he should be watching for something, or someone but the cold had impaired his ability to think. 

“Fuck this,” Tournamille said. “I’m making a fire.”

Simpson tried to respond but his mouth refused to form words. He grunted and nodded. What could it hurt? 

Geneviève continued to glass the village. She swept over the southern end, having forgotten how many passes she had made, when a glint caught her eye. She swung back towards the location, focusing on gaps between buildings. She lowered the glasses and rubbed her eyes. Was the light playing tricks with her? The reflection might have come from a crystal of snow or ice. She lifted the field glasses and continued. 

She saw the flash a second time. A man’s hand, a cup, or was it nothing? She scanned the area, more closely now. There! I have you now, she thought. She nodded. It was an excellent choice: she’d nearly missed it. Something else caught her eye: camouflage netting was draped over the roof. A thin wisp of smoke curled upwards, barely visible. 

Geneviève set the glasses down. 

“Power,” she whispered. “You conscious?”

“Yes,” he mumbled. 

He sounds bad but it’s nothing compared to what could’ve happened, she thought. Be thankful for small mercies. 

“Take the dead man’s weapons. Can you move the body? Put debris over it?”

“Yeah, think so,” he said, his voice sounding like a thin whistle.

“Good. Now, chamber a round into the shotgun. The cold will kill you sooner than a German. Makes you sloppy. Stay alert.” 

She clicked the switch on the Handy-Talkie. 

“Alpha this is Bravo, over.”

“Alpha, here, over.”

“Bravo has eyes on Alice. Down the rabbit hole. Near the bottom. Out.” 

Schubert leaned against a wall, shivering. He spat, wiping vomit from his mouth and blood from his face. The man lay on the ground, a wide, gaping cut on his neck, the folds of skin peeled back, crimson flesh exposed. His eyes seemed to follow Schubert wherever he stood. 

Peters bent low and closed the man’s eyes. 

“Geneviève has located the camp. Far end of the village.” He leaned in closer. “Sir, are you with me?”

Schubert tried to clear his head. “Yes, what? Geneviève…” 

“It’s shock, sir. You’ve got to get your blood moving. Swing your arms, breathe, man.”

“Peters…” Schubert began, looking at the dead man.

“Rules are different in war. He knew the risks. They’ll not hesitate to gut you. Sir!” He slapped his boss across the face, hard. 

Had the odds tipped to favor the enemy? Geneviève cursed Power’s bad luck. He could’ve warned Simpson and Tournamille, gotten them to move in closer. Now, the men were ‘dark.’ She needed to gain the advantage, but how? 

Maybe there was a way to spread confusion in the enemy’s camp. 

“Power, can you walk?”

“I can hobble, barely.”

“Good. Now, listen up.”

In the far distance, just beyond the horizon, Geneviève caught sight of a plume of smoke, thinner than a pencil line, but visible. It was a strange sight, a tiny gray shaft billowing into the sky. The train was six miles out of Fraser—sixty miles left to Carcross. They had roughly two hours. Would Power make it in time? 

Tournamille sat on a log, warming his hands. Simpson crouched low, trying to bring feeling back into his hands. His feet were a lost cause. 

“Keep it hot—don’t choke the fire, Tournamille or we’ll be sending smoke signals,” Simpson warned.

“Nothin’s gonna happen. We’re what you call ‘rear echelon troops.’ Clerical support. Run errands. That kind of shit.”

“Don’t talk stupid, man. There are Krauts out there.”

“Right. And this is Bastogne.”

“It’s bloody cold enough to be Bastogne.” Simpson rolled his shoulders, freeing cold muscles. “Hey man, we’ve got bragging rights. We’re in combat.” 

“Hurry up and wait, is what my buddies called it.”

“OK, enough sitting on your ass. Let’s keep an eye out.”

“Garvey,” Killoran whispered. “You seein’ that?”

“What? Where?” Garvey said.

“Up there—three o’clock,” Killoran pointed.

“Shite man. Better tell th’ boss.”

Killoran entered the makeshift room. “Better come and take a look.”

Von Sonnenfeld saw it too—a light whisper of smoke, south of their position. 

“Company. I’ll stay with Müller. You boys check it out. But be bloody careful. Günter and O’Brien aren’t back. Assume they’re dead or captured.” 

“The fuck you meaning captured?”

Von Sonnenfeld stepped in closer, pointing his knife at Killoran’s belly. “Conditions on the battlefield change. Get used to it, mick.”

“You best be ready to use that, Herr von Sonnenfeld. The Irish are quite at home with knives.” 

He lashed out, bending von Sonnenfeld’s wrist back. The knife fell to the ground. 

“Take your wee SS toy and sheath it, afore you cut yourself. Look after Müller—we’ll give whoever is out there a proper Irish welcome.”

Von Sonnenfeld sheathed the knife. Who was out there, he wondered. And more to the point, how in the hell did they find them?

Simpson squinted, trying to reconcile what he thought he was seeing: something had emerged from the buckbrush. At first, he thought it was a bear. Then he realized it was a man limping on all fours towards the tracks. 

“Tournamille!” Simpson whispered. “Look there,” he pointed. “Is that Power?”

“Son of a bitch! What’s he up to?”

Power was bent over the tracks, with his back toward them.

Tournamille said: “Can you see Sinclair in the bell tower? I’ve got nothin’. It’s too far.”

Simpson shook his head. “Same here.”

“Maybe we should go out there—help him out. He looks hurt.”

“No way. We stay put, as ordered. Sinclair has his back.”

Tournamille sank bank towards the fire. “OK Simpson. You’re senior.”

Geneviève glassed the advancing plume of smoke. She judged it was less than twenty miles away. Power had just retreated from the tracks, his first task completed. Could he get back to the church alive? Simpson and Tournamille, she supposed, were hunkered down but a thin thread of smoke had given their position away. If she had seen it, so had von Sonnenfeld.

“Sir, we’ve got to move! Now!” Peters slapped Schubert, harder. 

“OK, OK!” he said, holding Peters’ wrist. 

“Jenny called in. Jerry is positioned at the south end of the village. She’s seen activity but can’t say how many men are there. So far, there are four—Sonnenfeld, Müller, ours and another man dead in the church. We can assume there are more.” 

He passed Schubert the man’s handgun. 

“I’ll take the rifle. Keep your shotgun at the ready.” 

He radioed Geneviève. “Bravo, come in. Over.”

“Bravo here, over.”

“Any sign of the Mad Hatter? Over.”

“Negative. Over.”

“Heading to the briar patch. Over.”

“Good eating. Out.”

“Follow me and stay low.” 

Peters took the lead with Schubert close behind, covering the rear. 

Across the village, Garvey and Killoran made their way through the village. Neither man had combat experience but both were street fighters. They equated a lifetime of breaking heads and teeth as something that could keep them alive in their present situation. They moved carefully, ready for anything that might attack them on the ground. Like all thugs, both overestimated their intelligence: neither thought of looking for threats from above.

Geneviève spotted two men five hundred yards out. At their rate of approach, they would run into Power. Power, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen: the buckbrush was thick along the tracks and flowed into parts of the village. Given his injury, he could be anywhere. From her elevation and distance, she was unable to hear the noise he made, pushing through in the brush.

Killoran shot his hand up. Garvey stopped beside him.

“Hear that?”

Garvey cocked his head. “True that. Sounds like a bear comin’ through the brush.”

“Nae chance o’ that, mate. Hibernatin’. This bear be walkin’ on two legs.”

A hundred yards ahead, Power emerged from the brush, limping, leaning on a stick.

Killoran smiled. “Correction—one leg. Care to do some huntin’? Now, go around behind him and don’t be shootin’ me. Understood?”

Killoran moved forward, focused on the man ahead, Garvey approaching from behind.

Geneviève willed some warmth into her hands. She had one man in her cross-hairs. He seemed oblivious to everything except the pursuit of his quarry. At four-hundred yards, he had slipped behind Power. He had no idea he was being tracked. 

Should she sacrifice Power for the mission? If she took the shot, the enemy would know her position. That was secondary to the fact that the enemy knew they were there. She knew the terror of being sacrificed for a mission.

She steadied her breath.

At first, Power heard the sharp whine of something pass him by. Next, came the report of the rifle. He hit the ground, hard. Behind him, not twenty yards from him lay a dead man. He was headless—the corpse thrashed on the ground. Power fought the need to vomit. He rolled under a log because he had no idea what else to do.

Killoran ducked when he heard the shot. It had come from a big bore rifle. Sniper, he wondered? He scanned the village. Up ahead, he spied a pale cloud of blue smoke slowly rising. And then he saw the church steeple. The only high ground was the church. Belfry, was his next thought.

Von Sonnenfeld whipped his head around in the direction of the shot. Müller hit the deck. 

“We’re being hunted!” Müller hissed.

“Grab your gear. We’re setting the timers.” He checked his watch. “The train is less than twenty miles out.”

Müller tossed what he needed into a rucksack. Von Sonnenfeld handed him a rifle. 

“Keep a round in the chamber. Whatever happens to me, blow the goddamned train. Understood?”

Müller nodded. 

Enemy down, she said to herself. Geneviève swiveled back, scanning for movement. About six hundred yards away, two men were making their way further south, towards the tracks. Once they hit the buckbrush, there would be no clear shot. She tracked glimpses of movement—arms, a leg, a head. She followed them with the scope, guessing where they might emerge.

By the time Von Sonnenfeld heard the shot, his arm vaporized below the shoulder. He was thrown to the ground, like he’d been trampled by a stampede. His face clipped a rock. He rolled onto his back; blood gushed from the wound. He screamed until he blacked out.

Geneviève heard the faint trace of a scream carried on the wind. Enemy down, she repeated. 

At the sound of the shots, Peters and Schubert took cover. 

“It’s Geneviève. I recognize the rifle,” Peters said.

“Possibly two down,” Schubert said, breathing hard. “God, how many are there here?”

“If the Krauts hired the Irish, I’d wager at least six. Possible four down—leaves two, maybe more.”

“Alpha, come in. Over.”

“Alpha, here. Over.”

“Bravo reports two down. Third headed to the tracks. Once he’s in the buckbrush, I’m blind. Eyes on Power. He’s being hunted. Out.”

Geneviève glassed the area—Power had disappeared. His pursuer had also taken cover. The train was fifteen miles away. There was only one thing left to do.

“Oh shit, man. What goin’ on?” Tournamille shouted.

“Geneviève picking them off.”

“We’re sitting blind here—doing nothing! Fuck this, Simpson! We’ve gotta help.”

“We don’t move…”

Geneviève unleashed her third shot.

The explosion sent a shock wave over the village, sending rocks and track debris high into the sky. A huge, orange fireball mushroomed up and over the lake. 

“Take cover!” Simpson yelled. 

Rocks crashed down around them. When it was over, the dust was thick as fog.

Simpson waved away the dust in front of him, trying to get his bearings. 

“Tournamille,” Simpson coughed. “Hey Tournamille, you OK?”

Tournamille lay on the ground. He was awake but barely breathing. A shard of metal had cut through his side.

“Hey buddy! Tournamille!” he shouted, grabbing a handkerchief for a tourniquet. 

“Yeah,” he croaked. 

“Don’t move until I get back. You’ve taken shrapnel. Just goddamn don’t move! You understand! You move, you die!” 

Tournamille’s eyes rolled back and he fell unconscious. 

Simpson had to get to the church. Get help. 

Anything.

The engineer on the White Pass and Yukon engine #2860 saw the explosion and then a few seconds later, what sounded like thunder roiled across the lake. Debris carried high into the sky came crashing into the lake, sending huge shards of ice into the sky. There was no need for a telescope or binoculars to tell him the tracks up ahead had been blown up. But that made no sense. 

Why the hell would someone do that? he thought.

Müller dove into the brush. Von Sonnenfeld hadn’t moved. Miller had watched as the stump pumped wildly, the heart emptying von Sonnenfeld’s body of blood. Finally, Müller stood and ran onward when suddenly the valley echoed with a mighty blast. He hit the ground for cover, barely a hundred yards from where he left von Sonnenfeld. He caught the last remains of the fireball as it cleared the brush. 

“Show me your hands, slowly now,” Killoran said. 

Power pushed himself from under the log. 

“Now, your weapon—e’en slower or you’ll be dead afore you hit the ground.” 

Power handed over the handgun, butt first. 

Killoran nodded. “Tis a fine weapon, aye, but your not a soldier any more than I am a bloody Prod. Didna’ I see ya’ in camp a few days past?” 

Power said nothing.

“Answer me, fecker!”

“My name is Commander Jonas Power. You’re surrounded. You best give up.” 

Killoran laughed. “You take me for some idiot? Not many commanders hide ‘neath the rubble when the fighting starts.”

“You’re going to hang, you know. Enemy collusion. Aiding and abetting.” Power used every legal term he’d ever heard. “You’ve seen your men picked off one by one. We’ve blown the tracks. My guess is the train has stopped by now. You’re done.”

Killoran shoved the muzzle of his rifle into Power’s guts. 

“OK, commander, let’s move.”

Peters pushed through the buckbrush. It was as thick as a thatched roof. There was no easy way through it and no way to move in a straight line. Where they were going to end up along the tracks was anyone’s guess. 

Geneviève lost sight of Müller, Schubert and Peters. Where was Power? Simpson, though, was moving in the direction of the church. He looked panicked. Where was Tournamille? He was nowhere in sight. She scanned south and eventually tracked Power walking toward the church, arms held high in the air. Someone was pushing him from behind, staying low. To the north, Simpson continued forward, hell-bent, ignoring everything. She quickly realized Simpson was going end up in front of Power. She reloaded the magazine and chambered a round.

Forgive me, Simpson, she thought, then fired a round above his head. He fell to the ground and rolled under cover. Good—maybe he’ll figure it out. Maybe he won’t die, she thought.

Peters heard the shot and ignored it. He kept going and finally felt a light breeze through the buckbrush: they were close to the tracks and the lake. 

“Stay low,” he whispered to Schubert. “I don’t know if we’re north or south of Müller.” 

Peters chambered a round in the .303 Enfield. He crawled the final few yards and broke free of the brush. He looked north—nothing. Müller was further south of their position, attaching wires to explosives. Peters quickly glassed the area—there were no explosives on the tracks. Culvert, he guessed. He adjusted the iron sights and took aim. Müller was dead to rights. 

Müller worked frantically; his hands were shaking. Von Sonnenfeld was dead. He had to do this, had to blow up the train, had to succeed for Heydrich, for Himmler, for Hitler. There had to be glory in his death! 

“Scheisse!” has said, as the plier spun out of his hand. He bent over, reaching for them.

Peters took the shot. Son of a bitch! Müller suddenly bent over, looking for something on the ground. He reloaded and fired two more shots. Maybe he could rattle Müller, slow him down. 

Schubert was thrashing his way through buckbrush, towards Müller. He was half-way when he heard Peters fire three times. Schubert tried to move quicker, but the thick and tangled brushes were woven like a lattice. 

Finally, the brush thinned out. Schubert made his way towards some boulders, up on a rise. He reckoned he’d get a better view of the tracks. If Peters had missed, Schubert would have to kill Müller before Müller blew up the train.

Power heard the shot and fell to the ground. Geneviève swiveled the rifle back to wards Power and fired again. He heard the air cut in two and then the ‘thud’ of the bullet tearing into Killoran. He heard another tear through the air as a second bullet hit the Irishman. Power turned as the body fell to the ground. Killoran fell face-first into the rubble. There were two gaping holes in the man’s back. He could see clear into the man’s gut. By now the cold and the pain shooting up his leg left him immune to the sight in front of him. He grabbed the dead man’s rifle and continued limping back to the church.

Schubert left the brush for the safety of the boulder but still couldn’t see over the brush. He climbed onto the rock. Finally, he saw Müller, no more than fifty yards away, connecting wires to TNT.

He aimed at Müller. “Müller! It’s over. They’re all dead.”

Müller pulled out a handgun. “I have a dead man’s switch! You know what that is? When I let go, the dynamite blows! Are you ready to die?”

“Hitler’s finished—the war is over! Give yourself up.” 

At fifty yards, he knew he could hit him with the handgun. It was the explosives that troubled him. He needed cover behind the rock or he might die with Müller. But where was Peters?

“Look down the tracks. The train has stopped—you’ve failed. What’s so goddamned important about that train that’s worth dying for? Müller! Don’t!”

Schubert jumped from the boulder as Müller pressed the switch. The explosion was deafening. Rocks rained down all around him—he pressed himself further under the boulder, praying for cover. He could hear ties and steel rails crashing into the water and the clanging of rails falling one on the other. 

In ten seconds, it was over. 

Peters ducked. By sheer luck, the falling debris missed him. He ran back to Schubert. His friend was unconscious.

“Shit! Geneviève!” he yelled into the Handy-Talkie. “Schubert’s been injured…by the rocks, east of the track!” He was breathing hard, sucking in huge draughts of air. “I’m heading for the train.” He threw the radio down and sprinted, like the devil himself had come to take his soul.

The train conductor ducked instinctively, for a second time that day. The second explosion was huge: the shockwave had rocked the big diesel engine. 

“Well, holy hell, Grainger, what in the name of God is going on out there?”

Grainger shook his head. “Dunno Burt, but sure as shit, we ain’t goin’ to Carcross today. Probably not for another couple of weeks.”

“That’s for damn sure.” The engineer squinted into the distance. “What the…? Grainger, gimme those glasses!” He focused a few miles ahead. A man was running towards them. “We got company. Put ‘the Beast’ in low—let’s meet him.”

Peters heard the big diesel revving; smoke poured from the stack. The train was moving. He sat on the tracks, cold and numb, waiting. Finally, the engine pulled to a stop. He climbed into the engine compartment. 

“My name’s Peters. I’m with the RCMP. What are you carrying? Who’s on board?”

“I dunno what you’re expecting, fella, but there ain’t nuthin’ special cargo-wise.”

“Sir,” Peters said, his bones sore and his body weak. “Are you telling me there are no passengers on this train?”

The engineer was a big man, black as night from the coal dust. He had a big wad of tobacco stuck in his cheek. He spit out the window. 

“As I was about to tell ya,’ today’s a supply run. Ain’t no passengers on board.”