 
# Prologue

In 1948 the last of 12,000 civilians of German descent who had been detained during World War II departed Ellis Island. The FBI maintained freeing these "misguided" individuals was now safe because the dangerous ones—those involved in espionage—had been apprehended and now languished in the Federal Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas.

After the ferry docked at Battery Park, one former internee filed beyond the last guard, then smirked. Mocking J. Edgar Hoover's wistfulness, the passenger melted into New York's noontime milieu.

# Chapter 1

Severing the carotid artery and jugular vein renders a human unconscious in approximately 20 seconds, dead in less then two minutes.

Did Walter Delp have the courage to endure those first moments?

No!

With the question answered he returned to his shaving. While dragging the straight razor along his bristly neck he pondered the cause of the persistent depression.

When thoughts of ending his life first fluttered, he believed the depression might be related to aging, since its onset had occurred precisely on his 44th birthday. But that evening he had performed adequately several times with his current lady friend, thus confirming that although his blondish hairline receded he remained virile.

To further prove the recurrent suicidal musings had nothing to do with a deteriorating body he had reduced his gut to a slight paunch over the last few months. Still, he often flirted with exsanguination when handling a sharp object.

Shaving complete and after donning a crisp blue suit, he stepped out onto the streets of wartime Berlin. This morning instead of heading for his desk at the Abwehr headquarters on Tirpitzufer he set off for Luftwaffe headquarters on Leipziger Strasse.

Yesterday he had received the summons to this early morning meeting with a Generalmajor Halber. He could only surmise, since no details had been offered, that the Luftwaffe officer desired details concerning some occurrence in the United States.

He worked in Abteilung IV—the department that conducted "white" foreign intelligence. He spent his days reading American newspapers and magazines, diplomatic assessments from German embassies in the US, and any other material providing insight into the events and attitudes of that nation. "Black" intel fell within the domain of spies who operated abroad, stealing enemy secrets.

The Reichslufffartministerium occupied a gargantuan six-story office building in the heart of Hitler's capital. He approached it with trepidation, considering the political winds swirling within the Nazi bureaucracy now that the war had turned against the Reich.

He had never heard of, let alone met, the brigadier general before being shown into his office. Halber was tall and thin with a bald, bullet-shaped head. After only the sparsest of pleasantries the flyer dove into the purpose of the meeting.

"Delp, have you ever heard of a 'jet' engine?"

"Like the thing they use to shoot rockets off into outer space?" He'd read a magazine article about that method of propulsion a few years ago. His area of expertise was political and societal information, however.

"Somewhat similar," Halber replied. "What I am interested in is the use of jet engines to power our fighter aircraft. They are almost a reality. The operative word being 'almost.' But that part of the story is for a little later. For now let's start with a short history lesson, shall we?"

With palms sweating, he occasionally briefed high-ranking officers about occurrences in America. It was a relief to quietly listen.

"What I am about to tell you is most secret. The information comes from a variety of sources."

He nodded.

"Our enemies are working on a jet engine. Its development is well along. The concept was the brainchild of an English aeronautical engineer named," Halber paused, picked up a typewritten dossier, and scanned it before continuing, "named Frank Whittle.

"It first powered an aircraft in 1937. But the 'roast beefs' need for massive conventional aircraft production when the shooting war commenced crowded Whittle's invention out of the aircraft factories. Churchill, likely fearing we were nearing completion of a similar engine, agreed to let the United States take over the project.

"An American general by the name of 'Hap' Arnold came to England and witnessed a test of the power plant. Afterward they handed him the engineering diagrams.

"Once back home Arnold summoned General Electric executives and offered them a contract to produce a similar engine. As you undoubtedly know, GE is one of the most technologically savvy firms in America. Arnold also asked Bell Aircraft Corporation to develop a fighter for this new power plant. It has been designated the XP-59. It was ready for its first flight in September 1942."

Halber now read from the report. "The XP-59 crossed the continental United States by train to Muroc Army Air Field, located in the high desert northeast of Los Angles, California. The secrecy surrounding the project was so great that even in this isolated locale a dummy propeller was fitted on the aircraft whenever it was on the ground."

Military intelligence of this nature was far removed from his typical ambit of expertise. He began to wonder what was going on.

"Fortunately," Halber lectured on, "relying on spies, our RLM has been able to observe the development of the airframe. After numerous high-speed taxi tests, the XP-59 finally began flight testing a few months ago. Besides aircraft structural issues, the power plant has apparently required further refinement.

"The initial GE engine development work took place at several factories—Schenectady, New York, Lynn Massachusetts, and Lockland, Ohio," the general quoted from the sheaf of pages before laying them aside.

"I've been told these plants operate under some of the tightest security possible. Thus far we have enjoyed little success in learning details of the jet engine itself," Halber concluded with a sigh.

With the next breath Halber recovered his command presence and brightened. "But of course, we are also at work on a jet-powered fighter. A recent bit of intelligence may, unfortunately, indicate that the enemy is surging ahead of our efforts.

"A Mexican informant has reported that a secret project involving airplanes is taking place near the border with his country. The intelligence appears authentic because it comes from a member of a US fighter squadron.

"That formation, by the way, is the only unit of Mexican soldiers to join America in the war. We surmise that his wing trains on the same field in Texas where trial flights with the jet engine are taking place."

"Why so far from the other plants?" He knew the states of New York and Texas were widely distanced.

"I think the engine's development has been moved to a better climate to avoid the delays caused by the long winters—you don't want to be experimenting in bad weather. The location appears plausible because General Electric according to this dossier," Halber tapped the report," has had a long-established base at the airport. You are familiar with Pan American Airways?"

"Of course." The airline's routes girded the globe.

"Pan Am has a repair facility there to take care of its Latin American operations. The rumor, according to the Mexican pilot, is that GE has contracted with the airline to handle the mechanical details. That allows their engineers to concentrate on technical aspects of the project."

"That still seems unusual— it being so far from their factories."

"We're fairly sure that GE personnel are already based on that field. They have been called in to solve a problem with the gun-aiming computer installed in the waist-turrets of B-29 bombers.

"They've got to have pressurization in such a high-flying machine. That means that gunners can no longer merely poke their guns out a port. That would compromise the environment within the fuselage. They need a mechanism for remotely pinpointing the target. Our analysts believe the gun aiming work is taking place on the field. That seems to indicate that GE is already in place there."

Halber leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigarette. After inhaling he said on a quiff of smoke, "With that background, I'm now around to where you fit in."

A sense of foreboding sent a frisson of tension through his shoulders.

"You've been detailed to bring us the secrets of this jet engine."

His palm clapped a cheek in a gesture of surprise. "But . . . but I'm a deskman, sir."

Halber drew on his smoke, then exhaled, In the authoritative growl of a field officer he spoke. "It has been decided. Not by me, but by those above."

How could this be? He had served solely in a staff capacity since the last war. Espionage tradecraft had grown into a highly specialized endeavor involving technical skills far beyond his ability. It seemed inconceivable that a layperson such as himself would be dispatched on an assignment of such significance.

His major qualification was knowledge of current affairs in the enemy nation. A secondary plus—he had some limited capability with the English language. Still he wondered, had he offended someone in the hierarchy who was now settling a score? Or had it merely been fate not looking kindly on him?

The Luftwaffe officer glanced at his wristwatch. "I am expected at the Chancellery shortly, so let me wrap this up. Tomorrow they will be making a test flight of the latest improvements in our own engine. You and I will be there to watch."

He listened in shocked silence barely able to follow Halber's next words.

"The efforts of our jet developers have been wanting. I believe we lag far behind the enemy. However, witnessing our engine's astounding performance will give you some idea of the significance of this project in furthering the war effort."

Halber studied him a moment. "I believe my words have upset you? Let me offer this; should the test go well there is always the possibility for reconsideration of the need to send a man on such a mission."

# Chapter 2

During the jarring overnight train trip to the test site at Warnemunde Delp awoke often, invariably contemplating the irony of the situation. The mission to the US appeared suicidal—a fate he had dwelled upon recently.

Life-ending inclinations had, however, been abstractions. The reality of a tortured death at the hands of the Americans was an outcome he would have difficulty facing.

He was not a hard man. An overdose of sleeping pills as a way to escape a bleak future, possibly. But dying in agony was another matter. He prayed the test flight would go well, that he could return to his cubby at the Abwehr offices.

By first light he had reached a better understanding of his recent moroseness. It was born amidst a sense of déjà vu. The war, which had started so promisingly, was going poorly now. The Eastern Front was in disarray. America was coming up to speed, flooding the theaters of war with weapons, munitions, and manpower.

Before long the Fatherland would be back on its knees as it had been at the end of the Great War. The resultant peace imposed then through the Treaty of Versailles had debilitated Germany. He had lived through that calamity—did not want to see it repeated.

The briefing prior to the jet test flight took place in a small building on the airfield. He sat with several air force officials and a few civilians at the conference table waiting for the meeting to begin.

Suddenly the door banged open. Halber, the general who had yesterday changed his life, strode in, commanding all to stand to attention.

Herman Goering shuffled into the room behind Halber. Before this moment the closest he had been to the Luftwaffe's top general was across a sportzplatz during a Nazi rally. Now he sat within feet of Hitler's number two man.

Except for the Blue Max gorget around his neck, the medal-laden, epaulet-bedecked tunic Goering wore resembled a costume from a comic-opera. The baggy, sky-blue jodhpurs were apparently intended to remind others of his days as a Great War ace.

When everyone was again seated, Halber introduced a tiny man with wiry hair. Jesco Putthammer worked for Junkers, the engine's manufacturer. He was the civilian engineer ultimately responsible for developing the jet being tested today.

"Just to bring everyone up to speed," Putthammer began, "let me start by saying the notion that turbine blades compressing air and exploding it out the rear of an aircraft could power flight has been under development for well over a decade.

"Conventional aircraft propeller technology has peaked. The tips of these airfoils now rotate near the speed of sound. Spinning them faster creates other technical concerns, which—"

"Let me tell you about an experience I had back in the last war," Goering interrupted. "I was flying my Albatros. I kept telling my mechanic that the propellor was vibrating something awful. He was an old fart and always wanted to argue. . . Came from somewhere down in Bavaria, he did. Some of those mountain men should have stayed put. They are better at raising goats than machining, eh?"

With that Goering cackled before falling silent. Then his eyes ran the table accepting the sycophantic grins of the assembled underlings. Putthammer paused. Like everyone else, he waited for the man to continue on and finish his story about the propeller.

Goering had, however, apparently lost his train of thought. Putthammer waited through several awkward beats before resuming his commentary.

As the briefing continued he glanced at Goering, who sat at the end of the conference table. Bathed in stage makeup, the obese air Reichsminister's glassy eyes barely focused. He appeared intoxicated, possibly under the influence of drugs.

Both vices had been rumored. Some said Goering still suffered from the effects of a prior battle wound. Others claimed that a street-fighting injury from Hitler's failed putsch continued to pain him. It was hinted that morphine was necessary to keep him functioning. That was also the cause of his extreme weight, so the story went. Regardless of the cause the man's buffoonery astonished Delp.

Within a few sentences Goering again interrupted Putthammer. At that point the discussion centered on a highly technical matter of the fuel formulation for today's test. The developer and another civilian, apparently a fellow scientist, were exploring which proportions of diesel, plus an aviation mixture, plus a special additive blended from coal would perform best. Goering suddenly broke in, expounding on the merits of the formula.

The air minister's legendary dilettantism was on open display. He could not possibly be fluent in the science of jet fuels. Nevertheless, the man rambled on for a few sentences before veering off onto the subject of bomb detonators. Delp watched as other nervous eyes about the room twitched.

It had taken only a few moments in Goering's presence for him to accept as fact that the rumors drifting about concerning the Reichsminister's bizarre conduct were true. If Hitler, Himmler, and other top Nazis performed similarly, Germany would soon lie in ruins.

Those at the table stirred, interrupting his thoughts. The meeting was over. The group rose and filed towards the door leading to the runway.

Once out in the frigid Baltic Sea breeze ripping across the Marienehe airfield, tears oozed down his cheeks. Back turned to the gale, he squinted down the runway studying the test aircraft.

Thin wings bisected a tubular fuselage. The tip of this body lacked the traditional nose-mounted propeller. A round inlet took its place, allowing rammed air into the turbine nestled out of sight. The pilot was visible within a clear bubble canopy tooled into the forward end of the fuselage.

With his white-striped on grey full-dress general's breeches whipping in the wind, Halber, the officer charged with making a jet powered fighter a reality, stood next to Goering. Halber pressed a field telephone to his ear.

Seconds later the gaunt general reported to Goering that the Heinkel's launch crew was ready. The Reichsminister flipped a hand, signaling the test to proceed. Halber spoke the order into the mouthpiece.

A mechanic stepped to the nose of the aircraft, tinkering with the Junkers JUMO 003 engine.

"That man is going to fire up the starting motor," Halber explained to Goering. "It's a 2-cylinder motorcycle engine that runs long enough to get the compressor rotating. Once the air pressure builds up the engine continues to run on its own power."

Everyone watched as the mechanic grasped a starting rope protruding from the air inlet at the front of the plane. He yanked the cord before backing quickly away in an apparent reaction to the engine spooling up. The craft was downwind—too distant to hear any sound.

"It'll take a minute for the engine to warm, Reichsminister," Halber said.

They waited silently until the mechanic pulled the wheel chock.

Flame shot out of the He-178's tail. The silvery projectile rolled forward on stubby landing gear mere inches above the runway. The aircraft accelerated. Within seconds it hurtled by the knot of technicians and RLM officials, its exhaust a deafening brattle. The nose rotated upward. The craft took flight, banking into a steep, climbing turn as it positioned to perform a flyby for the spectators.

At several thousand feet of altitude and midway down the length of the airdrome, a gout of flame erupted from near the wing root. An instant later a ball of fire consumed the aircraft. The nose and tail, fragmented by the explosion, disappeared into invisible pieces. Afire and trailing smoke, the wooden wings tumbled earthward.

Without uttering a word Goering turned away, stomping towards a waiting Mercedes.

Before chasing after Goering Halber pivoted around. Neck muscles corded, he chucked his face into Delp's. "Be in my office first thing tomorrow morning. You're going to America!"

What he witnessed before the explosion had been incredible. The performance gains enabled by a jet would hand the side first to deploy such technology a war-changing advantage. The Heinkel's climb rate and the speed it had attained prior to destruction were awing—like no aircraft he had ever seen.

Something else was also obvious. Now, four years into a conflict that Germany appeared to be losing, the pressure on the design and development team to perfect the revolutionary turbine power plant must be immense.

Putthammer, the scientist who had briefed them earlier, soon filled Halber's place. "I had high hopes for this test," Putthammer sighed. "But, alas, I still don't have the metallurgy formulated properly."

"I feel your disappointment," he said

Like a startled turtle, Putthammer reacted to the wry remark by hunching his shoulders deeper into an outsized overcoat before he spoke. "I feel bad for you, too."

It appeared that Putthammer was aware he conversed with the man tapped to steal the American secret.

"So, what are your prospects now?" he asked.

Hands spread in frustration, Putthammer said, "Our project is stalled. We have tried any number of amalgams. The metals that hold up best—nickel, cobalt, and molybdenum—are too scarce to allow for mass production.

"We are toying with chromium, manganese, and even iron. But so far the turbine blades must be replaced at between 10 and 25 hours of operation."

"What's happening to them?" With the espionage assignment looming, he needed to learn something of the technology.

"Heat and vibration are the enemies. These engines have a combustion chamber, which, by the way, functions on principals somewhat akin to an auto engine. In a jet compression of air is the first step. This is accomplished by blades at the front of the engine. Next, in the combustion chamber located just behind the compressor we add fuel. The compressed air and fuel are ignited."

"With a spark plug, like in a car?"

"Not exactly, but close enough for purposes of explanation. The resulting explosion forces the air to jet out the back of the turbine. That pushes the engine forward—Newton's Third Law of Motion in action.

"Temperatures in the combustion area are terrific—hot enough to melt metal unless we ventilate the chamber. Even then the heat is problematic. We need better materials to construct this component."

"Is that what occurred today?"

"Those flames coming out the tail at the start of the takeoff run tell me that the pilot was trying to impress the Reichsminister. He was feeding too much fuel to the turbine. More fuel causes more heat. When something ruptured–probably the combustion section—the remaining petrol ignited."

"What will you try next?"

"Frankly, my staff and I are running out of ideas. Give us enough time and we will happen across the correct metal, but as we search the clock is ticking down. Not only for me and my men, but for our nation as well."

He departed the airfield still weighing Putthammer's comment. There were whispered rumors that many in the scientific community now regretted the pacts they had made with the "devil."

They had taken Hitler's funding, thus giving life to their pet projects. Now they rued the fact those decisions had led to the creation of weapons that scarred man and earth. A glance out his car window at the bomb-shattered city of Rostock was proof of what this war had brought to his homeland.

Of course, there was no doubt that a scientist such as Putthammer may have been under enormous pressure to turn a dream—one that might someday be a boon to civilian aviation—into a weapon of war.

Moreover, in the early days of the Nazi regime national pride had bloomed within many patriots, himself included. Somewhere along the way, unfortunately, those desires for a strong, stable Germany had become perverted.

He often pondered how many of his fellow citizens secretly harbored misgivings about the course Germany had chosen? Was there a point where one's love of his country became a sickness—a plague of allegiance? How did an individual know when to rear back, stand against the national flow?

The source of his depression—his nation's woes—flooded back. The Nazi elite had become drunk on their power and ability to mesmerize a generation of Germans.

The leadership demanded national loyalty but demeaned the covenant by behaving despicably. Although he normally refused to dwell on the heinous activities alleged, in his heart he knew that state sponsored crimes took place. When the Allies came his nation would face a reckoning.

# Chapter 3

The morning following the disastrous test flight, Delp reported to the RLM as ordered. Halber's secretary, explaining her boss had stepped out for a moment, showed him into the general's office to wait. He went immediately to a globe of the world, which filled one corner of the room.

Following yesterday's disappointing test flight the train had taken the entire night to return from Rostock. He had hurried to his quarters to bath and dress before reporting. This was the first United States map he had happened across.

At the southernmost tip of Texas near the Gulf of Mexico coast his finger located the dot demarcating the community he was bound for.

The vast strangeness of a foreign, enemy land far removed from Europe unnerved him. The vow to carry out the espionage that had resulted from realizing it was a duty he owed his homeland faded. Could he find a way to duck the assignment?

A door latch clicked. He pivoted around.

"Checking to see where this berg of Brownsville is located?" Halber asked as he entered.

He snapped to attention. "Yes, sir."

"When I learned what is supposedly going on there, that was the first thing I did as well. The town is apparently nestled right up along side Mexico. Only a river separates the two. That may be the reason they sent the Mexican pilots there to train."

Overnight the Generalmajor's ire had apparently cooled. He felt comfortable enough to pose a question. "Just how reliable is the intelligence source?"

Halber took a seat behind his desk and motioned him into a visitor's chair.

"I don't know much, except that that he's a Mexican. The man was described as, let me see," Halber thumbed the intelligence report he had referred to during their first meeting. "They call him an 'Aztec Eagle.' Lists his squadron here as the 201st. Maybe your Abwehr can enlighten us both about that unit?"

Given Halber's bonhomie attitude he ventured an argument to duck the mission. "The reason I ask is that this Mexican might be a logical person to sneak into the secret facility and photograph whatever documents you need."

While fishing a cigarette from his tunic, Halber sighed. "I had a feeling I'd failed to clearly explain one point when I covered this matter two days ago. We need an actual engine, or at the very least, a turbine blade from one."

He gawped.

"My apologies." Halber paused as he spun the wheel on a gold Dunhill lighter. The wick failed to ignite. "The scientists say a metal specimen is the fastest, surest way to get the formula right."

Halber leaned across the desk with the cigarette clasped between his first two fingers, apparently hoping for a light from Delp. He did not smoke and waved Halber off with a shake of his head.

"I should have been more specific on the need for an actual part. Regardless, here's what has been passed along from this Mexican pilot. The Americans have the jet rigged up in a bomber. The engine doesn't actually power the Boeing, which is only the 'mother ship,' so to speak."

"So they take the bomber up on her own engines and once aloft run the jet?"

"That's what we've been led to believe." Halber pulled a tiny tool from his desk and began unscrewing the stem that held the lighter's flint.

"Why not get this 'Aztec Eagle' fellow to highjack the damn thing and fly it out of the country? You don't need me, you need a pilot." He immediately regretted the aggressive retort, attributing it to stress.

"The bomber is too complicated for a lone fighter pilot to manage."

Fortunately, Halber had ignored his intemperate remark, instead concentrating on getting his lighter functioning.

He spoke in a less pejorative voice. "Can't you infiltrate one of your Luftwaffe bomber pilots and let him fly it out?"

"My colleagues and I have considered that option and concluded, if you'll excuse the expression, that it 'won't fly.' That method might have been a possibility up until a short time ago.

"In the beginning the host airplane was a Consolidated B-24 bomber. While it is a fairly complex machine we have recovered enough of them—that have been downed by our air defenses—to understand their systems. Apparently the jet testing has, however, now advanced to the point that a higher performance plane is required. The Americans have started to use one of their new Boeing B-29s."

This long-distance bomber had been commissioned when it appeared that the Axis would conquer all of Europe. It was reportedly capable of bombing deep into the interior of the Continent from distant airfields. That meant the turbine was already aboard a machine that could transport it far beyond America's shores.

He removed heavy framed spectacles and massaged the bridge of his nose. "I'm not understanding the problem? With a complete engine on board, why not just send in an entire team of experienced pilots and hijack the whole rig?"

"Let me start by saying that the B-29 is in all likelihood the most complex flying machine ever constructed."

With a fresh flint now seated in the spring-loaded stem, Halber screwed it back into the pocket lighter as he spoke.

"With the Englanders having held on during the Battle of Britain, there has been no need to deploy it in the European theater. It has been used nearly exclusive against our nipponese allies where it flies high above the Pacific. None have crashed where the Japanese can salvage wreckage. That means we have very little idea of its flight characteristics or equipment."

Cigarette back between his lips, Halber again spun the Dunhill's wheel. The flint sparked but no flame followed. He laid the smoke aside and continued.

"I was, nevertheless, in favor of the course you just suggested, because that would also provide us a B-29 in the process. But I was overruled. The belief is that we have only one shot at stealing the engine. After that the Americans will realize how exposed the testing location is. They will pack up and move to the interior."

Halber retrieved a tin of lighter fluid from a desk drawer.

"Now as a pilot, I can appreciate the difficulties that must be overcome in trying to spirit the Superfortress bomber away. In the few minutes after an armed takeover and before becoming airborne there are four engines to get running and warmed up.

"One bit of intelligence that has been uncovered is that there are seven generators in the ship's electrical system. Figuring out the starting sequence and bringing the units on-line to crank the remaining engines might take even one of our best electrical engineers several hours of trial and error, I've been told."

With the tiny screwdriver back in hand, Halber removed the cap over the felt-filled tank that held the lighter's fuel before he went on.

"Then there are potentially complex gasoline transfers among multiple tanks. Fail to handle that task correctly and benzine might be pumped overboard causing fuel starvation short of a friendly destination. And of course the Americans will be hot on our tail. We may, further, be completely unable to defend the plane from their fighters, since we don't know if they have any armament on the host craft."

Halber removed the cap from the minuscule spout of the can, dribbling fluid into the lighter.

"Finally, the fact remains that on a complex airplane one single oversight in the landing checklist could result in the prize we seek being lost in a crash. The Americans might even have it rigged to self-destruct in the event of a theft by hiding a disarming switch aboard, some have speculated."

"Any chance an American pilot familiar with the B-29 might be turned against the United States and aid us?" Perspiration trickled down his spine as the reality of the task ahead seeped in.

"The odds seem low," Halber said. "We are continuing to explore that option. But Goering is demanding action now. You saw the state he was in yesterday at Warnemunde."

"You and the Luftwaffe staff have obviously looked at this from a number of angles," He said, sensing his options for avoiding the foray evaporating. "How do you see the mission unfolding, Majorgeneral?"

With the lighter now filled Halber replaced the cap on the fluid container and returned it to a drawer.

"It would appear that the next best option is an escape by sea. The only other alternative is to spirit the item into Mexico, and then hope to smuggle it out of that country. Such a journey is fraught with unknowns and would place the operation largely beyond our control. The sea route has been decided on by those that matter."

"So what is the Kriegsmarine proposing?"

"I must tell you that at this point the navy has offered minimal cooperation. Even as we near a crisis the politics of air power versus sea power continues to rage internally."

"The Fuhrer can solve that problem, I'd bet." Hitler ran the nation with an iron hand.

"It may come to that. My experience in the bureaucracy is that it is far better to work through problems on a peer-to-peer basis. To proceed otherwise often means that those implementing a Fuhrer Order are obstreperous."

He had seen that phenomena on more than one occasion undermine and even derail the best of gambits.

Cigarette between his lips, lighter in hand, Halber's thumb spun the wheel. He touched the resulting flame to the tobacco and inhaled deeply in satisfaction.

"Here's what I want you to do. You have been tapped for this mission because of your knowledge of the enemy. I believe you can meld what you know of America with what you've learned in the last few days, and come up with a detailed, well thought out plan. With that in hand we'll have something to take to the navy.

"And speaking of planning, I must discuss another important matter. You will be inserted into America as a solo agent."

"Alone?" Fearing Halber's confirmation, his voice squeaked. He had assumed an experienced field man would be grafted onto his team.

"The short answer is yes—you'll be on your own at the beginning. Now spying on the enemy is not my field, but let me explain why this is best.

"We have not enjoyed much success with previous foreign espionage exploits. So the thinking is that a 'lone wolf' might fare better The solution that has come down from above is to choose a person with knowledge of the United States who does not come from our traditional sources of foreign agents."

"How am I to accomplish this on my own?" he nearly cried with frustration.

"You will require the help of others. We all realize that. You will need to recruit your cadre from within America. Are there not many loyal Nazis living there?"

Halber was correct in that regard. In 1940 one percent of the residents of the United States had been born in Germany. Another four percent of the population had two native-born German parents, and an additional four percent of the population had one native-born German parent. Twelve million people in America were thusly bound to the Fatherland.

"So at this point I will leave you to develop a plan." Halber stood, signaling the briefing's end. "When you have your thoughts together we'll meet again. I'll expect to hear from you very soon."

As he exited the office the enormity of what lay ahead descended on him. He stood in the hallway for long moments contemplating where to begin. Working in intelligence had allowed him to become knowledgeable about areas of the United States such as New York and Washington. He had also read a report or two originating out of San Francisco concerning the West Coast. But Brownsville, Texas? What was it like?

# Chapter 4

The airplane propeller blurred the Mexican shoreline into a mirage. Klare skidded the nose of the Waco right for a better angle of view down the ribbon of white sand nestling between a blue Gulf of Mexico and brown brush on the inland side. Ahead her target—two fishing boats nosed onto the beach—materialized.

A low pass insured the shore was free of driftwood. She circled back around for the landing. With the throttle closed the biplane glided down from 100 feet. She held the left wing low, paralleling the beach's slope and maintaining alignment with the swash line.

Unable to see ahead because the Waco's nose was tilted skyward, she leaned beyond the cockpit to judge height. The balloon tires touched down. The skids, extending forward of the wheels, skied across the sand, preventing the craft from miring into the sugary softness. The plane stopped near the boats.

After wriggling from the fuselage she greeted a fisherman. "Que tiene hoy?"

"Nice redfish. The señor will like them," answered the man in Spanish.

At a weathered boat the Mexican gathered a hemp net attached to the gunwale. Within it silver and pink fish thrashed.

"How many you want?" the barefoot man asked.

"Cinco." She could sell extras around the airport if Mr. Tittselsey did not want the whole lot.

The darkly tanned fisherman wrapped the five she had selected in damp palm fronds. When the catch quivered on the floor in the front passenger position of the aircraft she paid him. Moments later he swung the propeller and 75 horsepower snorted to life. She advanced the throttle. Grit blasted the windscreen.

Reluctantly, the biplane came unglued. It rattled over the ridges while slowly accelerating. After skipping and settling back a few times, a drift vaulted her free. She did not need gauges to tell her the Waco yearned to escape the sandy storm.

She eased the stick back. The machine shuddered about to give up its attempt at flight. Then a gust of wind delivered airspeed, powering it beyond the stall. She held the fabric-covered plane just above the sand, allowing it to accelerate before climbing out over the whitecaps and turning north.

Thirty minutes later the Rio Grande River slipped beneath a wing. She had flown above miles of deserted shore to reach American soil. If she continued to track north along the barrier island shoreline from this southerly outpost of the continental US, only desolate vistas would lie below until reaching the town of Corpus Christi over 130 miles distant.

Ahead a pair of jetties stretched into the sea, cleaving the breaking waves. Banking west at this point set her on a course above the arrow-straight ship channel that furrowed across nearly eighteen miles of level scrubland. The narrow waterway widened at its inland end into a rectangular basin roomy enough to pivot oceangoing vessels.

Just ahead lay the Brownsville airport. Over the radio she announced her intention to land. The field had become a busy place following the military's arrival at the outset of the war.

In the far northwest corner of the complex a huge hangar served the Army's Air Transport Command. Through this facility passed every breed of plane destined for overseas duty. Ferry pilots who would eventually reposition the aircraft at far-flung bases trained on the particular type of aircraft at the airport before going to the factory to take delivery of the actual machines. A contingent of students taking primary flight training also operated out of this base.

The control tower stood east of the Army Air Corps hangar, from which point it oversaw the military activity and the airline complex just to its south. There a cluster of buildings housed the Pan American Airlines operations. A red tiled terminal building with an automobile driveway on one side and the paved airplane parking apron on the other sat beside a similar structure that held the airline's administrative offices.

A pair of civilian hangars where the Waco resided was adjacent. Isolated from these structures, at the southern end of the field, stood two Pan American maintenance hangars. Secret military development work occurred there.

In accordance with the tower's instructions, she crossed the field's center at a high enough altitude to remain clear of any other traffic landing or departing. A northwest turn to parallel the landing runway followed.

On her left the city of Brownsville simmered in the afternoon sun. From the air its most striking feature was the many lakes that serpentined through the community. She knew them as oxbow lakes—where a meandering river cut off a bend, thus orphaning a small body of water. The local people referred to them as resacas, a Spanish term translated roughly as "reclaimed." Over the centuries the Rio Grande River's delta had veined the area with these narrow, low spots. Rain runoff gathered there, reclaiming them as wetlands.

Along the town's resacas, which were often lined with homes, grew trees and sometimes dense foliage. Beyond these lakes only scrubby brush thrived naturally. Land developers had descended on the region at the turn of the century. The climate boasted a year-around growing season. Farmers recruited from colder climes soon cleared the fertile lands, turning these plots into agriculture production. Irrigation canals supplied life-giving river water.

The Rio Grande Valley—as real estate speculators four decades prior had marketed it—was not really a valley, at least not the type she had known in her native Germany. The terrain was flat. Twenty miles from the seashore the Brownsville airport rose a mere 30 feet above mean sea level.

A right bank eventually aligned the airship with the prevailing southeasterly wind. Her landing on the ample runway seemed anti-climatic after the beach touchdown.

She taxied in noting Mr. Tittselsey stepping from the shade of a hangar. As the region's grand reigner, he could afford to have his supper delivered fresh.

With a broad smile splashed across his face, the wealthy man strode forward. He commented about the windy day and her landing as she gathered the catch and laid it on the concrete. He wanted all five fish, paying a good deal more than was necessary.

Tittselsey invariably appeared at the airport to take personal delivery of the red snapper and sea trout, a task his chauffeur could have handled. Always chatty, she wondered if the middle-aged widower's interests went beyond the delivery of groceries. Maybe his attentions were but another example of the curiosity many males found with female flyers.

Regardless of their motivation, the consideration she now garnered was very different from what she had come to expect in her early life. Too bad she had to shun their approaches and live as though she were a nun.

Born Klarissa Fischreiher 24 years prior, her mother had shunned the typical European diminutive form of Klara, preferring to use Klare.

She had learned at an early age that certain people barely tolerated Jews. So when venturing beyond her neighborhood she anticipated disdain and even torment.

Her father, Ammon, told her a friendlier atmosphere awaited her in Hebrew school where she would be surrounded by students of her own religion. She soon discovered that even within this parochial environment others kept their distance. She grew up with only one close friend, a girl of similar age named Sara.

Sara claimed the ostracism they suffered related to the controversial politics practiced by their fathers. The two men were cronies. Both were infatuated with communism—a movement bent on overthrowing the infant republic and installing radical socialism in Germany.

For as far back as she could remember he had championed the poor and downtrodden. Arriving home from his factory job, he held forth during supper about politics and union affairs, before hurrying off to plot everything from election strategies to revolution with his comrades. At least that is what she had surmised. Although equally radical, family responsibilities had constrained her mother.

Of course, the authorities knew of her father's Bolshevik scheming. More than once the police visited their apartment in Dresden and questioned Ammon.

As she entered puberty an endless chain of elections wracked the nation. The Nazis bullied anyone spurning them. The Communists soon aped their opponents. Ammon invariably marched in the first rank of the Marxist columns. As a Lenin devotee and with the nation's future being forged on the anvil of plebiscites, he stood up for his beliefs.

These brawls resulted in Ammon's regular incarceration, normally on the day before voting, only to be released after the polls closed. She privately felt the police were acting in the best interest of Germany. A fledgling democracy could not engender election legitimacy by allowing street warfare to erupt around the ballot box.

Ammon's brushes with officialdom took place under the fretful eyes of neighbors. Many of her religious persuasion felt they faced enough other difficulties in the simmering postwar turmoil and should avoid political participation all together. Acquaintances pleaded with him to tamp down his political fervor. Such a stance was anathema to Ammon.

Klare never knew for sure, but she suspected that the family's relocation came about because, in part, certain rabbis allowed that Germany might be better off with Herr Fischreiher far, far away from the gathering storm.

When it became apparent in 1933 that Hitler and his Nazis had wrested control of Germany from the other political parties, her father reluctantly, at the behest of his spouse, began considering "resettlement." Wife Christabel wrote letters to several embassies inquiring about job opportunities in the countries they represented.

As a gifted tool and die maker, the foreign diplomats assured Ammon that he would find employment abroad. Klare's mother ultimately concentrated her search for a new home in Latin America. There many republics hosted German expatriate colonies.

Her father continued to equivocate on moving. Two frightful meetings with Staatspolizei thugs finally persuaded him to follow Christabel's leanings. Ammon corresponded with a German machine shop owner in Costa Rica, soon securing a position with the firm.

Klare despaired of leaving her homeland, but at sixteen found it impossible to break away from her mother and father. Had she enjoyed a coterie of friends wrangling with her parents to remain behind to complete school might have been an option. Unfortunately, circumstances had isolated her from all but a few acquaintances. That fact added to the preeminence of family.

The Fischreiher's resettled in San Jose, Costa Rica. Unfortunately, they had not fled far enough away from the tempest. It had caught up with them once. It might swamp her yet again.

# Chapter 5

A bewildered Delp barely noticed the sights and sounds of Berlin's streets as he walk to his office. He had just left a briefing with MajorGeneral Halber where he had been ordered to America to steal a jet engine.

The magnitude of the espionage would have been difficult enough to absorb if the Luftwaffe officer had said he was being assigned to a cadre of spies tasked with that theft. But what was equally staggering was that he would get virtually no help with the planning, nor be permitted to recruit even one seasoned agent to accompany him.

Once in his office in the "fox lair," as the Abwehr headquarters was known, he stared at the walls, unable to fathom where to begin. Without purpose he began rooting in the accumulation of paper that had mounded up on the desk during his absence in Rostock, where he had viewed the failed test flight.

He was more than happy for the interruption when a voice said hello. A snappily dressed fellow with a manicured beard and freshly clipped brown hair stood in the doorway.

"The name's Erwin Globke. I'm a junior analyst in the Informationsstelle. Any truth to the rumor you are going to the 'New World?'"

"What made you think that?" Delp dissembled.

Globke apparently dealt in foreign intelligence as did he. But the organizations each man worked for were most often competitors vying for Hitler's ear and favor. Jealousies between Admiral Canaris' Amtsgruppe Ausland, which was Delp's division of the Abwehr, and Foreign Minister von Ribbentrope's Informationsstelle spies made him cautious about revealing anything to this stranger.

"I work in the Latin American section on the Mexican desk. I may be able to provide you with a contact that will benefit your endeavors." Globke folded his arms and waited.

"Why don't you tell me a bit more."

"We have allies in Mexico. These sympathizers may be persuaded to offer aid to your project."

"Please have a seat." Any help was worth exploring.

Globke settled into the only chair in his cubicle.

"First, some background. Since 1910 Mexico has been wracked by nothing less than a civil war. The revolution is somewhat settled now in favor of more liberal politicians. Although those who do not care for the socialist reforms are still active. They have, nonetheless, been forced underground following America's entry into the war."

He did not consider himself a student of Mexico, but his focus on the US had left him with impressions of the southern neighbor. In terms of rambunctious politics, Mexico seemed to have paralleled Germany.

The ultra conservative factions had carried the day in the Fatherland. They had, according to Globke, lost in Mexico. Considering the decades long struggle, Delp was certain that those now deposed in Mexico felt ardently about their cause. Was the dissension bitter enough among conservative Mexican elements that they might aid him?

"Sometime in the late 1930s a political party similar to ours emerged from the confusion of the revolution. They are commonly known as the Sinarquistas. Just as with our National Socialist founders, the Sinarquistas determined they needed a policing capability. They patterned their Gold Shirts after our Sturmabteilung."

If the Gold Shirts were even half as effective as the SS, they would represent an asset Delp might exploit.

Globke slipped a folded paper from a suit pocket. "This came out of an American newspaper. It will give you some verification of what I say." He handed the news clipping over.

The story was datelined Mexico City, Mexico, February 3, 1939.

A crowd of over 3,000 gathered outside the headquarters of the Fascist Front for Unify Revolution, a successor organization to the now banned Sinarquistas, last night to demonstrate against and listen to speeches berating the Jewish population.

Juan Moran, a Gold Shirt member, railed against the city's 15,000 Jews, calling for "more Jewish blood to flow in the streets." Handbills claiming that Jews were responsible for millions of unemployed in the Americas were passed out.

At one point a member of the crowd punched a passing Jew in the face. The man, Jacobo Glantz, is an editor of the Yiddish newspaper "The Pathway." Glantz was on the way to the nearby hat shop of his wife. Glantz, a naturalized Mexican citizen, made it to the shop. The crowd then wrecked the store.

The mob, chanting "Kill Jews! Kill Jews!" then marched through the streets smashing store windows of several Jewish owned stores and businesses. They then converged on the auditorium of the Jewish Chamber of Commerce, where a large gathering of Jews was listening to a lecture by Leon Forem, Yiddish novelist from New York. The audience barricaded the door but the crowd hurled rocks through the windows. It took police and firemen blasting them with water, before the crowd dispersed.

Police said the handbills were most likely prepared by foreigners. President of the Nationalists Vanguard (an organization often partnering with the Sinarquistas), Rueben Moreno Padres, admitted that Germany had been involved in its preparation.

"Interesting," Delp commented, passing the clipping back to Globke. He was not anti-Semitic, but the story proved these Gold Shirts were more than a debating society.

"I think you can see why the sitting government has officially disbanded the Gold Shirt's 'storm trooper' units," Globke said. "Nevertheless, away from the capital they still are knit together in small cells. There is an active group in Matamoros—that is the city just across the Rio Grande River from Brownsville."

He leaned forward, cradling his chin on his fists, silently urging Globke to continue.

"I see my information intrigues you," the Foreign Office man said knowingly. "In fact, the present administration of President Comacho deported the top Dorado official. He now resides in Brownsville—a man by the name of Carrasco."

"What is this 'Dorado' group?"

"Sorry, Dorado means gold in Spanish."

"Ah, a nickname. So what makes you think these Mexicans, who are involved in an internal struggle, are willing to act against their neighbor and good friend, the US?"

"To begin with, let me disabuse you of the notion that the two nations are 'good friends.' While they share a common border of well over 1500 kilometers, long-standing resentments exist, some stemming back into the last century. Mexicans are a proud people. They still smart from the loss of huge chunks of their territory following an 1846 war with the US."

Globke delivered his information in a confident, polished manner. He had obviously prepared the brief and presented it before.

"I am, of course, familiar with the Zimmerman Telegram incident of the Great War." Anyone involved in foreign affairs in Germany knew of that debacle Delp realized after opening his mouth.

"That was in reality one of the latter sources of irritation between the two countries. Before we get into that one, let me cover certain other germane incidents between the two nations that set the table for Zimmerman's fiasco.

"Mexico was deep in the throes of its revolution well before the World War began. An army general, Victoriano Huerta, occupied the presidency when we Europeans bumbled into combat in 1914.

"Huerta, who had deposed Mexican President Madero, instituted a vicious regime of retribution against his enemies. That earned him the title of 'El Chacal.' This 'Jackal' ran afoul of US President Wilson, who yearned for democratic elections in Mexico. Wilson attempted to coerce Huerta's resignation but failed.

"At about the same time an incident occurred in Tampico, which is a coastal city a few hundred kilometers from where you are headed. With a civil war raging south of its border, a US fleet stood offshore ready to protect American oil interests.

"Language difficulties led to arms being raised against sailors of an American gunboat that had entered the port for fuel. The crewmen were arrested but soon freed. Their pride wounded, American admirals demanded that the US flag be raised above Mexican soil and a 21-gun salute be fired in homage. The Mexican commander refused.

"In a rage, Wilson asked his Congress for permission to invade. But before that could be granted a ship, the SS Ypirango, carrying arms and munitions for Huerta landed at Vera Cruz. Without a Declaration of War or even Congressional approval Wilson ordered the seizure of the customs office and confiscation of the ship's armaments, which were located there."

"That is surprising. I never realized the Americans were so aggressive." An idea was beginning to take shape in Delp's mind.

"This was a situation all too reminiscent of the prior US invasion of Mexico in 1846, which I mentioned earlier. Ordinary citizens took to the streets. A two day-battle for the city followed with US Marines engaging Vera Cruzans.

"The naval forces prevailed. The foreign invaders remained in Mexico for weeks until Argentina, Brazil, and Chile could broker a peace that managed to quelled all-out war between the two neighbors.

"Huerta vacated the presidency in 1915 as Mexicans continued to depose succeeding administrations. But the 'Jackal' soon changed his mind about leaving office. He traveled to New York to negotiate an arms shipment with a German secret agent named Franz von Rintelen, who was in America to sabotage munitions shipments destined for the Allies.

"US authorities learned of their meetings. As Huerta made his way back to Mexico, US lawmen apprehended him. He remained incarcerated in an Army prison at Fort Bliss—that's in Texas—until his death the following year."

"You certainly know your Mexican history, Globke."

"I've had to become knowledgable. Some in the Foreign Office have long held that Mexico is an asset that should be more thoroughly exploited."

That Mexican factions were drawing interest as potential allies of Germany stoked Delp's imaginings.

"With Huerta's death, less conservative elements ultimately succeeded in taking power. A foe of Huerta's named Carranza managed to install a government and become president. Those events set the stage for the Zimmerman Telegram," Globke concluded.

In 1917, during the Great War, Germany had sought to distract the US from joining the Western Powers. German Foreign Secretary Zimmerman sent a note to his ambassador in Mexico proposing that the two countries "make war together" against the US. In exchange Germany would offer material aid in restoring the territory Mexico had surrender to the Americans following their defeat the previous century—namely the states of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and much of California. President Carranza received the note from Zimmerman, asked a general to assess its feasibility, and on the bases of that report determined not to act upon it.

Unfortunately, the telegram had been intercepted and decoded by the British. After several delays it finally ended up on President Wilson's desk. He was incensed that Carranza had not advised its neighbor to the north of Germany's proposal. When the intrigue leaked out the public shared Wilson's outrage.

"The Americans," Globke continued, still resent Carranza's handling of the Zimmerman Telegram. As a result of these incidents things are tense between Mexico City and Washington.

"The Mexican authorities might ignore a degree of harassment of the US by Sinarquista rebels out of spite. They could argue that the Gold Shirt guerrillas were beyond their control. They might be secretly pleased to have the rebel's tantrums focused abroad at a neighbor—one they might enjoy evening a score with.

"I should point out, that on the local level, the average citizen is not involved in the diplomatic posturing. They live in peace and commerce with their American counterparts. But there are dissenters."

Globke's briefing offered Delp an inkling of how the mission might unfold. It would seem that Germany's combination of philosophical sympathy coupled with a demonstrated desire to aid like-minded political parties in Mexico had forged a relationship with certain rebels in that country—and that these dissidents might be brought into play to aid in the theft of the jet engine. What Globke revealed next was even more heartening.

"Once the US entered the war and faced off with Japan, the ultraconservative Sinarquistas became more pro-active in support of Axis efforts. A group of followers established a colony in the Baja California port of Magdalena Bay in 1942. The Mexican Navy had only a minor presence along that area of the western coast.

"The outpost was close enough to California that Washington grew worried, fearing that Japanese forces might be allowed ashore there, from whence they could march north."

"And by that time Japan was invading the Aleutian Islands," Delp added. "They were also sending firebombs attached to balloons over the Pacific Ocean towards America. They had even shelled some oil refineries near the coast in the state of California. So after those events I'd imagine that the fascists in Mexico became more than a pastime for American spying organizations."

Globke nodded. "Surveillance was stepped up. That drove the most aggressive activities of the Sinarquista party underground."

"At least we know they do more than merely grouse."

"Absolutely." Globke's voice notched down in volume. "Now what I am going to pass on next is only rumor. I would appreciate if you would leave my name out of any mention of this part of our conversation. My source is an acquaintance—one who I'd hate to see disparaged if the leak were traced back to him."

Curiosity caused Delp to bob his head in acquiescence.

"The Sinarquistas claim to have established a second base along the eastern coast of their country, in addition to the one on the west coast I just spoke of. The purpose of this facility is to aid German naval activities in the Gulf of Mexico and Caribbean Sea.

"Central American petroleum is essential to the Allies ability to wage war. Our U-boats stalk the oil tankers every hour of the day and night. In an emergency our subs might go there for essential supplies. Or in the event of a shipwreck, it would provide a rendezvous point between a U-boat crew and a rescue vessel. The exact location of the camp is held in strictest secrecy. U-boat commanders learn of its position only during the final briefing before they depart on patrols to the region."

Was such an outpost possible?

"I wish I had more information for you about the station, but that's all I've got."

"What brought you in here, Globke?" The man's information was so on point he was curious about its provenance.

The Foreign Service man ignored his question. "Care for a bite of lunch?"

Globke was a treasure trove of information that might mean the difference between success and survival, or failure and death. He would listen to the analyst as long as possible.

# Chapter 6

Dangler and Globke strolled along the tree lined street fronting the Landwherkanal to a wurst kiosk where they made their selections. Lunch in hand, Globke steered him to a lonely bench in a nearby park.

A legless-amputee wheeled his chair down the path before them. Around the soldier's neck hung a medal.

Awards for bravery commenced with the bestowing of Iron Crosses. The recipients numbered in the hundreds of thousands, Delp supposed. The Knight's Cross represented a step up the valor scale. Only a couple of thousand soldiers wore it. Even fewer, totaling only a few hundred heroes, were presented the prized leaves or swords to adorn the medal. The passing invalid had won a Knight's Cross clustered with oak leaves.

Their eyes followed the veteran as he made his tortured way beyond them. Globke wrapped the brat back in its paper after a single bite. "Earlier you asked why I dropped in. Love of my country; love of Germany. That is the simple answer, the honest answer."

"Isn't that what drives us all?" Delp responded warily, surprised by the turn of the conversation.

"It has become clouded for some in recent years. Take that poor soldier's Ritterkreuz." Globke nodded towards the retreating invalid. "They've confused love of the current state with love of the nation, and of our heritage, in my opinion."

Delp believed he understood precisely the distinction Globke was referring to. The military awards had first been issued in the last century—decades before anyone had heard of Hitler. Today the medallion bore a prominent Nazi swastika. What had once been the symbol of a political party, of a personality cult in the beginning, had now become the emblem of the German nation.

"You are speaking of the confusion between the present body politic and our fatherland's heritage?" he questioned.

Frowning, Globke nodded. "They asked me to talk with you because of my position relative to your destination."

"The Foreign Office asked you?" He searched for a footing in the quicksand of political intrigue that was now Berlin.

"Not exactly, although some there would approve of what we're up to."

To the outside world Germany appeared as a monolithic nation marching in lockstep with Hitler. The truth was that citizens within the country held vary degrees of loyalty to the dictator.

"And the 'they' you referred to . . . are other people who love the German nation?" He shadowboxed with Globke, still not certain about where the conversation was bound.

The Nazis considered the slightest disloyalty to Hitler treason. In spite of that, a faction existed in Germany that wanted to rid the nation of der Fuhrer. Given the police state that existed within the country, many realized a change in leadership could only come with a military coup.

He waited silently, recognizing that rebellion was a grave business. Globke had brought him to this quiet corner of a park for a reason. The information about Mexican rebels and the U-boat replenishment station they had established furthered his mission and the war effort—nothing untoward about that conversation.

However, he suspected a more baleful message was coming. He surmised the conspirators had sent an obscure staffer to make the contact, thus insulating themselves should Delp shop them to the Gestapo

"If things do not change the war will end even more badly for us." Globke's eyes roamed the park as he spoke. "Communications with the United States regarding a truce have been attempted.

"Unfortunately, at this point Allied leaders have no interest in trying to work out an end to the fighting. They read the same 'tea leaves' as my colleagues do. The American President knows the war is going his way. This weapon you are after—that could change some minds in Washington."

"It seems to me that any success I may have might just turn the Americans into more fierce enemies?"

"Should Hitler remain in power that could be true." Globke left the provocative retort hanging.

"So it has come to that?"

"Here is the strategy. First, let me tell you it is coming from people far above me. They plan to seize control of our homeland from the Nazis. Don't ask me how—I don't know and I don't want to know.

"Once we have a moderate civilian government backed by a sane military in place our new leaders will make very open pleas to Churchill and Roosevelt to stop the slaughter on both sides and start negotiating a peace. The thinking is that public pressure will get us to the table.

"Now here, Delp, is how you fit into the scheme. If we have a jet engine to offset a similar weapon of the enemy that becomes one more reason for the Allied leaders to settle a peace on more favorable terms, than if we have been beaten into submission by an unconditional surrender."

Globke stood, "I've delivered the message as asked." Then he raised a hand. Rather than praising Hitler with the ubiquitous salute, the messenger from the Foreign Office said, "Viel Glück!." Then he strode away.

Good Luck! How true—a healthy portion of positive karma would be needed to carry off the heist. He continued to occupy the park bench while attempting to order his thoughts.

Stupefaction and terror when Halber plucked him from a sheltered job in his bureau had been his initial reaction. At that point notions of surrendering once on American shores battled with revenant thoughts of ending his life. Duty, honor, country won out.

Soon Goering's behavior had tilted him further towards recognizing that his nation strayed from civilized norms, that as a citizen he needed to resist what was clearly a destructive course.

The morning's session with Globke had given him heart that a mission to steal a revolutionary military secret might succeed. The sight of the maimed soldier, the thought that others shared his hope of a quick, just end to the war, further whetted a commitment to see the project through.

Based upon Globke's information concerning the situation in Mexico a plan to spirit the jet engine to Germany hatched as he walked back to his office.

Telephone in hand, he was raising the switchboard to set up a meeting with someone at BdU when he recalled Halber's mention of inter-service cooperation problems. With his life on the line a face-to-face meeting with the admiral commanding the U-boat fleet appeared essential.

Generaladmiral Hans-Georg von Friedeburg was the man to see. Friedeburg had assumed leadership of the submariners when Karl Doenitz became commander-in-chief of the Kriegsmarine. If he delegated attempting to secure an audience with von Friedeburg to a staffer at the air ministry it would in all likelihood result in his meeting with an aide, rather than the admiral.

U-boat command was at present located on the coast of France. During the effort to secure transportation there he learned that von Friedeburg was due in Berlin that very week. The lieutenant on the other end of the telephone line volunteered the admiral's schedule.

# Chapter 7

The day Delp planned to buttonhole von Friedeburg dawned wet. He loitered near a recessed entrance of the Kriegsmarine headquarters on Tirpitzufer. The door burst open and a naval aide skipped down the steps, summoning a limousine. Delp edged towards the entrance. The top man at BdU, garbed in a leather bridge coat, emerged.

"A minute of your time, Admiral? I'm the agent detailed to steal a jet engine from America."

Von Friedeburg paused at that opening statement. A sentry edged towards them, evidently wary of Delp's interception. Eyes locked on Delp, the admiral shooed the guard away with a hand.

"I need the help of one of your Unterseeboots to accomplish the mission," he said quickly.

Von Friedeburg clutched Delp's elbow and steered them away from the door.

"Sir, I do not expect you to discuss this request at the moment. Check my bona fides at the Air Ministry. Then allow me to present my plan."

Delp had carefully weighed the next words. He needed to torque the admiral's respect. Hinting of involvement at the highest levels of the Nazi hierarchy through knowledge of certain well guarded secrets would be his gambit.

"Your secret Mexican base will be the cornerstone of our nation's success."

The admiral's sunken eyes stared from beneath his billed cap.

"Lieutenant, take this man's name."

The aide, who now hovered near, copied the information into a tiny notebook as von Friedeburg entered the waiting Horch Phaeton. Delp pondered if a visit from the Gestapo was in his future?

Two days later Delp stood before von Friedeburg's desk. He had been summoned here. He had not been invited to sit.

"The facility in Mexico is highly classified, Delp. How did you learn of it?" the admiral asked pointedly.

"I believe it preferable to leave that a confidential matter."

Von Friedeburg's bald pate fringed with black hair nodded while exhaling heavily. An expression of displeasure or capitulation?

"I am reluctant to have one of my boats involved, but I'll listen to your scheme. Go ahead, what is it you want?"

"Before I cover my needs I'd like to spend just a moment laying out the mission as I see it developing," he fenced with the admiral.

"Make it quick."

"There are Mexican revolutionaries who will help me."

This was an overstatement but served to grab Friedeburg's attention. As he went on to replay aspects of Globke's briefing it was apparent this was new information and of interest to the seaman. Next he rolled out the remainder of his scheme and then waited.

"So why not set up a high seas rendezvous?" Friedeburg asked.

"I see far too many problems with trying to meet up out at sea—timing and communications being the primary ones. That is why I have proposed that my team make their way to your resupply base. There the 'package' can wait in utmost safety."

"It will take an order from der Fuhrer himself for me to agree to that," Friedeburg parried.

"May I ask why, Generaladmiral?"

"In order to rendezvous there you will need the precise location of the station. The problem is that you are a spy heading into enemy territory. Should you be captured, the interrogation will be strenuous.

"There will be no protections from the Geneva Conventions. Such a secret would be quickly wrung from even the most hardened of agents. And, while it is my ardent hope that those working you over do not suspect such an installation, you might want to offer them the information—just to stop the torture."

Delp ignored Friedeburg's comments, having previously considered the objection and prepared a response. He forged ahead with false bravura, because his solution would drastically complicate the plan.

"I see your point. If you will permit another question, I assume that your captains heading to the Gulf of Mexico on patrol are briefed about the base?"

Von Friedeburg nodded.

"And I would also assume that some of those same captains might have fallen into enemy hands and are now held as POWs within the US?"

The U-boat commander, seeing where Delp was heading, grumbled, "Ja."

He believed he had overcome one of Von Friedeburg's foremost concerns. With this approach there would be no need for anyone to know the location of the emergency base except an imprisoned U-boat captain, who had been briefed about it prior to departing on a patrol.

"Do you know who is imprisoned in which camps?"

"We have records. They are not always complete or up to date. The Americans permit our men to write letters home. Sometimes such information slips through their censors and makes it into our files, sometimes not."

"Will you help me locate such a captain?"

"I suppose you will try to recruit him into your team?"

"Yes, sir."

After a resigned sigh, probably realizing he would have to accede in the end, von Friedeburg ruled. "We'll try to find such a captain."

"Which means you will agree to pick me up at that location?"

"I doubt I'll be given a choice," von Friedeburg snarled. "But in return for not opposing this scheme I ask that if a U-Boat captain emerges as a candidate that you keep in mind the following considerations.

"A prisoner of war has certain protections unless he violates the rules. Trying to escape is permitted. Involvement with an enemy agent would undoubtedly disqualify the seaman from such protections. Espionage is punishable by death.

"I appeal to your sense of morality, hoping that you would be forthright about your intentions with any captain you might approach. That means informing him at the outset that he is risking his life."

He quickly agreed.

"And I suppose you and your team will need to be inserted into America using one of my boats?"

"It'll just be me going in. Probably more souls coming out."

Friedeburg nodded. "I guess someone has finally admitted that we've a problem in the I-G shop."

That was the Abwehr department responsible for spying abroad.

"We have a miserable record on foreign espionage," the admiral observed. "We've lost far too many agents—there's got to be a mole hiding in that office. They prepare the spies to go into these enemy countries and my U-boats barely get them ashore before they are picked up."

That remark instantly clarified why there would not be a seasoned foreign agent accompanying him.

"Those eight spies they caught in America, they cost me no end of worry just getting them to the coasts of Maine and Florida. And for what? Within days they either got caught or surrendered," Friedeburg fumed.

He had heard whispers that so many spies had been apprehended in England as to make the exercise worthless, nay duplicitous. Many had been turned back around as double agents with the intention of misleading German intelligence, according to some.

By keeping him away from standard methods of grooming a foreign spy, he would remain unknown to any potential traitor in the Abwehr's I-G. Similar thinking may well have been the reason that they chose him—no one in I-G had ever heard of Walter Delp.

"You are better off enlisting accomplices from those already living in America," Friedeburg concluded.

Disgruntled residents must exist. The problem would be locating them.

# Chapter 8

From the roof he caught a fleeting glimpse of an unknown vehicle speeding past the gate. The road dead ended a quarter-mile further in that direction at the entrance to the Rottlieb's place. But they were not expected back until sundown. There were no other ranches nearby.

Mark laid aside his hammer, crabbed over to the ladder, and started down. The passing car most likely contained strangers, who were probably lost. He figured it would not be long before those in the vehicle would return, asking for directions or information.

In a few moments the black sedan idled back past the open gate, stopped, reversed, and eventually turned in.

He glanced around looking for his shirt then remembered it was on the house's roof along with the tools and new shingles. Summer sun had baked Texas for weeks. He had stripped off his tee-shirt earlier. If Oma saw him bare-chested and talking to visitors she would get after him.

The car pulled up. Two men emerged wearing starched white shirts and blue neckties. One was short and stout; the other tall and thin. Both shrugged into dark suit coats, buttoning them as they headed in his direction.

He hitched tattered Levis over his lean hips. "Howdy. Can I help you?"

"We're looking for the Stark place," the thick man with close clipped hair growled.

"You found it," he said, while dragging curly blond locks aside.

"Is your ma or pa here?"

"No."

"When they comin' back?"

"They won't be back—both of them died years ago." He noticed their surprise. "I live with my grandparents."

The tall man walked to the car. Reaching through the opened window, he fished a paper from the front seat then returned.

"We want to see," the man read, "Erich Emil Stark and Kaethe Kiep Stark. Are they here, boy?"

The comment irked him. He had been born 21 years ago, and it did not appear that these two men were more than 30. Perhaps the heat had irritated them. It was near 100-degrees, sweat streamed down their faces.

Nevertheless, he had better be hospitable, because he now knew they were from the government. After the war began he had helped his grandparents complete several official forms required of aliens. They had used their complete names on them.

"Those are my grandparents. She's likely in the hen house." He pointed to a low stone structure roofed in tin some distance away. "Now, Opa, I'm not sure where he got off to—out in the fields somewhere. What do you want; maybe I can help you?"

"Just round them up, sonny."

He fumed at the comment, but vowed to cooperate. "It may take awhile to find my grandpa. Why don't you wait on the porch?"

The two men headed towards the shaded area.

"Where's Opa?" he asked upon finding Oma in the hen house.

She shrugged her ample shoulders, combing a hand through her frizzy grey hair. "Likely down in the low pasture," she said in her native tongue.

Both grandparents had started life in Germany. Mark's father had been born shortly after they immigrated to Texas. The couple had lived on this ranch sixty miles northwest of San Antonio for nearly all of their adult lives.

Neither of them spoke much English. They had stayed close to home, venturing into the small German-settled community of Comfort only occasionally.

His dad had easily mastered the new language once in elementary school, translating for his parents until he died. After that Mark handled the task. Their neighbors and close friends, the Rottliebs, were German-speaking, second-generation Americans. They helped with language problems at times as well.

"Wait here," he told Oma. "I'm going to find Opa. There's some men at the house. They want to see the two of you. It's about that form we were late in filing. We'll stop back by for you."

Her brow furrowed.

"Don't worry—if there's a problem I'll straighten it out."

Some minutes later he discovered Opa clearing waist-high foliage from a fence line at the back of the property. The two of them planned to string new barbwire there tomorrow.

"We need you at the house." He told his grandfather what the visit was about.

Opa glanced at the sun. "Not quitting time yet. Tell them to wait." The small, wiry man turned around, bending to his task.

"It's important. Besides, its too hot for you to be out here working." Opa was over seventy-five years old and Mark worried about heart attacks. "Afterward, we can cool off at the waterfall."

He sensed Opa's irritation. Always excitable, his grandfather had of late grown short of patience and fond of explosive outbursts.

Hands on hips, he waited silently. Opa took a final few defiant slashes at the weeds with the machete, before the two of them trudged back up the hill, gathered Oma from the hen house, and headed to their residence.

The men were not on the porch. Once inside he found the fat man holding Oma's family Bible. The other man was standing before Opa's gun case, which held several rifles and some ammunition.

The tall man turned, staring at the machete in Opa's hand and the pistol on his hip. He opened his suit coat, reaching for his own weapon.

Mark realized the mistake.

"Take the Reichs off—you're worrying these men," Mark said casually in German, referring to the pistol strapped to Opa's waist.

When working in the brush, they often carried a revolver to kill the abundant rattlesnakes. He had not thought to tell Opa to stash it in the hen house before meeting with the government men.

Opa stomped to the dining table, banging the machete down. He turned around and stared back at the visitor, who kept a hand resting on his pistol. Opa reluctantly unbuckled the holster belt, gentling the loaded revolver onto the table.

"We're here to investigate the two of you," shorty said to the older couple.

"Who are you?" He asked with politely.

"I'm Elhert," the short man said. "He's Flood. Federal Bureau of Investigation."

This was his first face-to-face exposure to agents. During boyhood he had idolized the "G-men" as they arrested numerous "Public Enemies," thus saving the nation from a terrible crime spree. He wonder if these two men had become overly aggressive, their heads swollen from tales veteran agents told.

"I suppose you've come about the paper?" he asked.

"We'll ask the questions. Why don't you go out in the yard and play," Elhert sneered.

"Why you got all these guns, old man?" Flood asked.

Opa looked at him for help translating.

"They're for—"

"Let him answer." Elhert cut Mark off.

"Schutez," Opa eventually stammered.

"Shoot who, soldiers, war plant guards?" Elhert spat.

Unable to comprehend the FBI agent's words, Opa shrugged.

"He doesn't understand you," Mark interjected.

"Shut up!" Elhert snarled as he slapped Oma's Bible on the table for emphasis.

Opa apparently took offense at the disrespect for the words of God and stepped forward. He reached out to take the German-language Bible away from Elhert.

Flood, the tall agent, sprang at Opa. The old man stumbled back and fell to the floor. Mark was about to go after Flood when he saw Elhert open his jacket, revealing a pistol. Instead, he helped Opa to his feet. Fire flared in the old man's eyes.

"Let's take a walk." He hustled Opa outside.

With the old man calming down, he hurried back inside the house alone, finding the FBI men questioning his grandmother.

"These are Nazi books, aren't they?" Elhert asked loudly.

He craned to see what the agent referred to. They were quizzing her about old schoolbooks. The texts, written in German, had gathered dust on a shelf for as long as he could remember. Oma looked at him, pleading silently for help.

"Sir, if she can't understand your question, she can't answer it."

Elhert glowered.

"You talk for her," Flood snapped.

"They are her schoolbooks from long ago. Hitler was probably not even alive when they were published."

"Admit it—you're German through and through. You felt proud when Hitler marched into Czechoslovakia, didn't you?"

Not exactly sure what Flood had referred to, he remained silent.

Elhert fanned through Oma's family Bible. A folded page of paper fluttered to the floor. The agent retrieved it. After glancing at the words, Elhert showed it to Flood. The men looked at one another, exchanging knowing nods.

"Care to explain this?" Elhert waved the paper around, bellowing sarcastically. "A letter from 'dear Adolph,' no doubt."

He swallowed rising anger after recognizing the letter the men had referred to.

"Her sister recently passed away. The letter was sent to tell my grandmother the woman had died."

It had originated in some arm of the German government in Bavaria, the letterhead bore a Nazi emblem.

Ignoring Mark, Elhert slipped the letter into the Bible. "You will be hearing from us."

Flood picked up the pistol.

The men left the house, heading towards their car. He followed them onto the porch. Opa, leaning against an oak tree, saw the agents carrying off the Bible and his Reichs. He chased after them. Yanking Elhert's shoulder, Opa spun him around, snatching at the book.

Both men fell on Opa. The old man was no match. Handcuffs appeared. With Opa cuffed they jerked him to his feet, duck-walked him across the yard, and shoved him into the back seat of the car.

He started after them.

Behind him Oma shrieked, "Nein, Mark. Anhalten!"

# Chapter 9

The room was hot, airless, and crammed with filing cabinets. Delp sat on a stool while a Kriegsmarine yeoman, following Admiral von Friedeburg's orders, scoured BdU personnel files.

The clerk periodically handed him a dossier. He would study the file's contents—noting how well the sailor's background met the criteria he had previously set out. He was looking for a captain who had campaigned his submarine in the Caribbean and who was now a prisoner of war incarcerated in the southwestern United States.

It was a good omen when a U-boat captain named Jupp Oster, reportedly imprisoned in the town of Brownsville, Texas, surfaced. He jotted down Oster's pertinent details on a tablet.

Late in the afternoon the yeoman reported the record search was complete. He had seen the applicable candidates.

He left the claustrophobic repository satisfied. The providence of locating a candidate such as Oster again validated his decision to continue living; and to continue moving forward with the mission to steal America's jet engine.

As the clerk had rummaged through records, he had determined that the vetting of potential candidates should begin by interviewing family members—they would know the POW most intimately.

A military man might shield his true beliefs from colleagues to secure promotions. Military obedience might also compel a soldier not to reveal his insecurities. A man's kin, on the other hand, most likely knew what lay at the core of a close relative.

With that concept in mind, a few days following he called on Jupp's mother. He claimed to be a counselor sent by the Kriegsmarine bureaucracy to minister to the family of POWs. Gray and hefty, Mrs. Oster was the quintessential elderly housefrau.

He soon sat in her kitchen. She had fetched them both glasses of water, explaining that the ersatz coffee made from chicory— the root of a Daisy-like plant and the only substitute that was available in Germany at that point—was not worth the trouble of brewing.

"How have things been for you since learning of your son's capture?" he began, slipping into his role as a sympathetic advisor.

She sighed. "I have mixed emotions. I know that prison is not a place Jupp wants to be. On the other hand, it is far safer than being at sea, actually under the sea. So, as a mother, I won't say I am unhappy he is a prisoner."

He nodded empathetically.

"I hope, sir, that you will not repeat what I just said. Such a feeling is probably not an attitude some in the Fatherland would want to hear. It is what I feel, nevertheless."

"You are not the first to express such thoughts, I can assure you of that." He patted her outstretched arm reassuringly.

"Jupp was always my baby. He's been away for a few years, of course. Nevertheless, I was much closer to Jupp than Peter."

"Peter is your husband?"

"No, he's my older son."

He had not known a sibling existed. "Is Peter enlisted?"

"No, he lives abroad—in the United States."

His antennae went up. "Do you have contact with him? Is he a US combatant?"

"Peter writes me letters, always has. No, he's not a soldier."

"How did he come to be in America?"

"The boys' father and I could not make our marriage work. Times were hard and Werner, my husband, was able to immigrate to the US. When Werner got settled there, older son Peter wanted to be with him. Jupp remained with me.

"Jupp was a good boy. He never got into mischief and, after his father left, he was a great help around the house."

"Not the adventurous sort—not one to take chances, or go off on larks?" He inquired.

"As a boy, no. When he grew older he began to idolize some of our 'rising stars.'"

"Meaning?"

"We had the Great War veterans, who the Party began to build up." Arms folded, elbows on the table, she leaned forward, warming to the conversation.

"They were soldiers who have now ended up in top positions. Jupp always had a love for ships. Soon he came to believe that Admiral Doenitz was one of the greatest men to every walk on the face of the earth. He read everything the newspapers printed about 'der Lion.'"

"Is that what led Jupp into the U-boat service?"

"It certainly was one of his motivations. I wondered at the time—when he said he was going to join the Kriegsmarine—if he was serious about wanting to be a U-boat man, if he were up to the rigors?"

"Yes, they don't allow just anyone into that club."

"He not only went through the early training as a seaman but succeeded in becoming a captain. Quite a change, considering his boyhood behavior. It seems to me that second sons often stand in the shadow of their older brothers. Maybe after Peter left for America Jupp became more of a man?"

"So there were just the two boys?"

She nodded.

"That was the entire family?"

"Yes."

Jupp's relations in America interested him. "Is their father still in the US?"

"Werner died a few years ago. Peter has continued on. He'd lived there a long time. It's home to him, I suppose."

"Is he a US citizen?"

"Not to my knowledge. In the beginning he went to be with his father. Of course, work prospects were better there and he had just completed his schooling here."

"Is Peter married?"

"Neither son is. Jupp stayed close to home until he joined up. Since then he's been too involved with the Kriegsmarine to think of a long-term relationship, he says.

"I believe Peter and Werner kept to themselves. I think their only associations were with other immigrants. Peter is still involved in that German club—I think it's called the Bund, or something like that. He's one of the officers."

"Are your two boys on friendly terms?"

She nodded. "They used to write to one another. Of course, who knows now, what with Jupp a POW?"

When Mrs. Oster went to fetch Peter's address in America, he mulled the kinship between Jupp and Peter. The elder son Peter's politics—being involved with the nationalistic German Bund—made him a potential partner in the mission. If the senior Oster brother joined Delp, he would in all likelihood become a persuasive influence on brother Jupp to join the mission as well.

From the first inkling of his scheme, he had realized it might not be easy to recruit a POW. Officers in particular, lived a reasonable life, excepting confinement. They enjoyed hot showers, nutritious food, and recreational activities. If Jupp escaped, survived the mission, and eventually reached Germany he would once again sail with a wolf pack.

# Chapter 10

The day following his visit with Mrs. Oster Delp reported to Halber, the Luftwaffe officer who had pressed him into this operation. He proposed a plan.

"I am reasonably satisfied that Jupp Oster is as good a prospect as I will find," he concluded. "The location of his prison is perfect. Once we have the jet engine part in hand, I'll let him bring us home."

"I like what I'm hearing from you, Delp. It appears that your mission is coming together. That is good because the pressure is on us from the top. You must be on your way to America soon. In that regard, let's spend some time discussing your new identity.

"In here," Halber pointed at an envelope lying on his desk, "are many personal documents you will be needing. My staff have put this together for you."

The fact that this portion of the preparations to go into enemy territory was being undertaken by the Luftwaffe and not by his own organization, the Abwehr, was in line with the theory that some suspected a traitor existed at the espionage agency. He had come to accept that operating as a loner was the better approach anyway.

Over the next several minutes Halber covered the pertinent details of his new personage. Walter Delp would assume the identity of a man named Dieter Dangler—a German national residing in New York City.

The fictitious Mr. Dangler, who had no dependents, purportedly earned his living as a salesman representing several food processing machinery manufacturers who headquartered in Western Europe. From time to time Dangler travelled throughout America peddling his equipment, which consisted of items such as industrial-sized food mixers, electric meat slicers, and various ovens.

Halber dug into the envelope and withdrew a small booklet. "This is your most important document. It is known as your Enemy Alien Registration. When we finish here I'll send you down to our processing center. They will complete it with your photo and fingerprints. There are also a few rent receipts for your apartment in New York, and other papers relating to your job to help bolster the ruse."

He took the items from Halber and thumbed through them. In the preceding few days as the mission took form he had begun to grow more sanguine about his foray behind enemy lines. The actuality of what he faced set in as he held the American identification documents.

"In the packet is a more complete biography of Dangler than what I just related. I suggest you study it thoroughly. You must be comfortable with who you are supposed to be, what you have done in your life."

He intended on absorbing every detail. Then a concern surfaced.

"I know many Germans were trapped in America at the start of the war. So the fact Dieter Dangler is stuck there is plausible. But how am I going to convince US authorities that I am able to deliver products when all the trans-Atlantic ships are loaded with war material?"

"If you dig into some of those pages I provided, you will find a listing of your available inventory. Most of it is marked as 'used.' The story is that due to the war you are now mostly brokering old equipment rather than selling newly manufactured products. I might add that whenever it was necessary we typed the documents on an Underwood typewriter like the kind used in America."

"And where might this phantom inventory be warehoused?"

"If the police or FBI get into that, do your best to bluff your way through." Halber grinned.

It was the first time Delp had seen the Luftwaffe officer smile. An effort to disguise the fact that this ruse was riddled with gaping holes, no doubt.

"You know, Delp, we can't forsee every eventuality."

Halber had probably been as thorough as possible, but there would be pitfalls ahead. He hoped his wits served him well.

"I had the Abwehr send over a couple of suitcases of American clothing from the stock they keep on hand," Halber said pointing to some luggage in the corner of his office. "I didn't know your exact size, but choose what fits, or if necessary we can make some alterations. Oh, and take one of those grips, too. Don't want you getting caught because you look 'funny,' eh?"

They moved on to discuss travel arrangements. A U-boat had been made available to transport Delp/Dangler across the North Atlantic. Apparently Admiral von Friedeburg, whom he had met with, was cooperating.

"I have one more thing for you." Halber fished in a desk drawer, extracting a sheet of paper. "Since the exact route to your destination is vague, this is a list of contacts in several American cities that might be willing to help you along the way. There are also instructions for connecting with the friendly Mexican rebels that you previously told me about. Commit it all to memory and destroy this paper prior to leaving Germany."

Before long Halber was wrapping up their meeting. From the conversation it was apparent that the Luftwaffe officer believed planning of the mission was at an end.

He had been officially relieved of his duties with the Abwehr and cleaned out his desk. He would sail in two days.

That suited him. His personal affairs were in order. There was nothing to be gained by further agonizing about what lay ahead; better to be about it. He kept telling himself that hordes of immigrants had migrated to the US in the past. He would just be one more joining the milieu.

# Chapter 11

Like so many days since Klare Fischreiher arrived in Brownsville, this one was warm and breezy.

An earlier stop at the airport had revealed there were no flying jobs pending. She wished there was some work. Piloting an airplane in such wind had allowed her to master new flying skills and she wanted to keep them sharp. Moreover, a paying flight would give her a legitimate reason to be free of her room.

Her isolated existence had led to a strong yearning to be near people. This need often drew her to the cinema. It seemed rather bizarre that seated in a theater among strangers who were largely non-communicative alleviated the desire for companionship. Moreover, the darkened atmosphere lent an air of security.

She would take in a movie today if she had the money. A peek in her coin purse proved she did not. Nevertheless, the crowd on the street below her window beckoned. Then an alternative came to mind.

After viewing the film "Destination Tokyo" a few days ago, a man had stepped to the stage. He announced that a Japanese submarine employed in the attack on Hawaii would be on display in Brownsville today.

Certain to swell American patriotism—and therefore a motivational tool levering citizens to open their wallets and purchase war bonds—the trophy of a failed element of the island assault now toured the nation. The sub was sure to draw a crowd and she was curious enough to want a look at it. She headed out.

Once in the park she joined the throng encircling the enemy sub. December 7, 1941, Pearl Harbor Day, had changed lives—hers and millions of others around the globe.

The Japanese raid on America had roused the nation to shed its blood. Within a few days the United States was at war with both Japan and Germany. The descent from the state of well-being she had settled into while residing in Costa Rica began.

The family's arrival in San Jose a few years before the war began had been cordial. She had worried that her father's radical reputation might have preceded them. It had not.

The German colony there welcomed them into their community. She enrolled in school, becoming immersed in Spanish, the language of that nation. She continued with English lessons, which she had studied since childhood.

The German Club in suburban San Jose attracted the Fischreihers as it did many expatriates because of its amenities—tennis, swimming, and the only bowling lanes in the country. Little did she realize then this new life was but a temporary reprieve.

It came as no surprise when current events again snagged her father's attention. The old hunger for anarchistic politics gnawed at Ammon anew. She sensed his innate talent as a craftsman could have resulted in a rewarding career had he applied the energy to the job that he did to fomenting for social change.

Even after leaving the European cauldron behind, he would not abandoned heartfelt values. He began making meetings of the Communist Party, which was quite active and even published its own newspaper in the city.

An artist and a dreamer, Christabel became intoxicated with the romance of changing the world—a fact which illustrated how differently mother and daughter had come to view life. Their first adult quarrel erupted after Klare refused to participate in a communist May Day parade.

Her developing pragmatism soon resulted in a strained situation at home. Ammon and Christabel were dismayed that she repudiated their preaching.

She defended the belief that benign, democratic governments were not likely to fall to radical Communist coups. The man on the street would not throw away stability for the promise of a worker's heaven because of the inevitable violence that it would take to topple a ruling administration.

The argument was born out by events in Germany. Hitler's popularity grew as the country found its economic footing, even amid mounting human rights issues.

Trumpeted by Nazis supporters, German national pride proliferated around the globe. Several members of the San Jose German Club had begun plumping for Hitler. It would only be a matter of time before Nazis occupied all the top positions at the German legation in Costa Rica.

Hitler's bellicosity caught the attention of world leaders. President Roosevelt dispatched agents to keep an eye on how Germans abroad, particularly those who were politically active, regarded the dictator's proposals.

Central American countries stood at the forefront of these efforts because those nations lay nearest to America. The case of Costa Rica was even more critical to the US because it neighbored Panama and its essential canal.

Fascist coup attempts in Uruguay, Columbia, and Bolivia had sparked but died. The British, nevertheless, overplayed the true level of these threats to the ruling, friendly governments. With war a growing possibility it was in England's interest to alarm lethargic allies, especially America.

The disinformation emanating from London served to further complicated the positions of the colonial alemana in Latin America, even though most Germans living there realized that Hitler had little interest in such remote uprisings beyond their propaganda value. The actions were, nevertheless, more tinder for the gathering American Holocaust.

As her graduation from secondary school neared, tension between parents and daughter continued. One such argument altered her life.

Her mother and father believed that a person could never accomplish anything meaningful alone, that those above would invariably crush individual initiative. She disagreed with the notion that common citizens were destined for a drone-like existence.

Amelia Earhart, the first woman to fly the Atlantic solo, was at that moment enjoying much acclaim as she prepared for a second try at circumnavigating the globe. The first around the world flight had ended in a crash. Undaunted, the aviatrix would soon try again, undertaking what only a handful of pilots had even attempted once. Klare rebutted her parents' mantra concerning individual achievement with the Earhart feats.

While the argument failed to sway her mother and father, it clarified a sense of independence that now pricked at her. For some time she had felt that to survive intellectually in the Fischreiher household a demonstration of her autonomy must ensue. What better way to prove herself than by a personal achievement.

With school days ending, the timing appeared ideal. She would become a pilot—an occupation that was largely practiced on an individual basis. Involvement in aviation came about because she wanted to bolster a debate. It continued because of the activity's lure.

She had never ventured aloft until visiting the San Jose airport where she hit it off with a man who needed a girl to watch his office and do clerical work while he soared. Most of her salary was exchanged for flying lessons.

In retrospect the career must have been preordained. In Germany a fischreiher is the waterfowl known as a heron in many languages.

Christabel and Ammon remained ignorant of the flying until she earned her wings. The news floored both of them. There was no need to belabor the achievement. They were far too perceptive to miss any of its subtleties.

In 1938 Ammon insisted on voting in the global plebiscite concerning the annexation of Austria. German suffrage rested on the principal of bloodlines, not place of birth or current residency. Hitler wanted to demonstrate that these Reichsdeutschen scattered throughout the world desired that Austria be returned to the Germanic union.

To avoid the diplomatic repercussion of Nazis holding elections in sovereign nations scores of German registry vessels making port calls around the world would serve as poling places.

Ammon, opposed to anything the Nazis favored, organized the German communists living in San Jose. She joined her parents because of the feasting. Among 'hammer and sickle' banners and with a band playing, they boarded the train for the port of Puntarenas.

Once shipboard an authentic Volkfest ensued with German beer, cheese, black bread, sausage, and kuchen on the menu. The Fischreihers had not enjoyed such treats in years. She was certain many attended only because it offered a nostalgic opportunity for Germans living abroad to reconnect with the culture of their cradles.

The Nazis, never slow to capitalize on spectacle, handed out ballot towards the end of the party. She often wondered how many guests believed in Anschluss and how many voted with their bellies.

Nazi propagandists undoubtedly overstated the Germaneness of those living in far-flung outposts when they reported that over 90% of their expats voted with them and in favor of the German-Austrian union.

Mere participation in the festivities surrounding the vote was viewed as disloyalty to the host nation and loyalty to Nazism. The fact Hitler had melded his political party with the state further confused natives of host countries about the threat of German immigrants.

A San Jose neighbor—a German-born socialist who typically sided with Ammon on political matters—invariably raised the flag on traditional German holidays. Ordained by the Nazis, that official flag now contained a swastika.

As the world drifted towards war, American diplomats watched these happenings with growing concern. Shortly after the Pearl Harbor attack, the US decided to move against Latin American Germans. The American embassy presented a diplomatic note to the Costa Rican Foreign Office.

The communiqué contained a list of "dangerous persons and their families" that should be detained. The roll had been compiled by the United States Enemy Alien Control board.

According to rumors, many members of the San Jose German Club had been included. The US, it was said, believed the organization was a dangerous Nazi tool.

At about the same time a form appeared in a newspaper asking citizens to identify persons they considered to be threats. Who knew what business jealousies and social slights led to a German resident of San Jose being named on an anonymously submitted coupon?

Eventually a newspaper, Dario Costa Rica, published the 300 names. It went on to warn: "Patriot Costa Ricans should not deal with them . . . War is death. . .Totally against them or with them."

Many cited were assuredly Nazis. But there were also several German-born vendors selling products back into their homeland. Not surprisingly, some enjoyed substantial competitive advantages over native Costa Rican concerns. Ammon's employer, who fell into that category, showed up on the roll.

Her family had not appeared on the "Black List." Although relieved, she continued to worry.

Within days those named were placed under house arrest. A week later Ammon came in from his job, telling them he was also under house arrest and must remain within their apartment. A day later he was taken to the local penitentiary.

She and her mother were told to pack their personal belongings. They had been ordered to move to the German Club where they could be "watched."

They could only wonder why they had been detained. None of her family was aligned with the Nazi party. Her parents were communists not fascists. She was not involved in politics of any sort. Up until their arrests they had been admirers of the United States.

It did, however, appear that Costa Rican officials were using America's paranoia as an opportunity rid the country of anyone that had fallen out of favor.

Those on the "Proclaimed List" as well as others now incarcerated listened fearfully to rumors of a government plan to deport these "risks" to the United States. America's detention of Japanese, Germans, and Italians had been thoroughly covered in San Jose newspapers. She expected similar imprisonment if they were sent abroad.

The answer to what the future held for the Fischreihers came when they were escorted aboard the United States Army transport ship Puebla. Their passports and papers, as well as all but $50 in local currency, were confiscated once shipboard.

Among the most nimble, she slept at the top of a tier of four bunks. Conditions were crowded and turned unsanitary. They did not set sail from Puntarenas immediately; rather, they lay anchored in the tropical heat for over a week. Bathing and laundry facilities to serve the 600 passengers on a ship designed for far fewer were inadequate.Once underway seasickness turned the cabin rancid. Living conditions in the hold, where Ammon and the other men endured the passage, were worse.

As the naval vessel steamed northward in the Pacific Ocean fears of Japanese submarine attacks ballooned.

The line of people waiting to see the Japanese submarine in a park in Brownsville shuffled ahead. An enemy torpedo lying in a cradle near the sub came into view. A shiver of what might have happened on the voyage to America trilled her spine. A similar munition could have shipwrecked them all.

The long wait in the queue ended. Her turn came to climb the wooden stairs leading to the midget submarine. Situated on an open truck bed, a temporary scaffolding had been constructed along the black hull. Several openings cut through the steel revealed a view of the interior.

As she passed along the walkway peering into the cramped space, the reality of what the two-man crew must have faced struck her. The Japanese warriors who manned this craft had volunteered for what was undoubtedly a suicide mission.

Words from the Roman poet Horace reared. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Was it, indeed, 'sweet and right to die for your country,' regardless of the cause?

# Chapter 12

The U-boat rendezvoused with the trawler a few miles off the village of Biae-Trinte, which was located on the shores of Canada's Gulf of St. Lawrence. The sub's captain called Delp-Dangler topside. He clambered over the U-boat's saddle tank. The skipper of the wooden vessel gave him a hand up.

During the next two days as the trawler cruised towards Quebec City, several hundred kilometers to the southwest, he lounged in the wheelhouse drinking coffee with the grizzled captain. It was his introduction to Canadien politics, and why certain of the skipper's countrymen were willing to aid a Nazi.

French-Canadians were divided over the necessity of going to war against Germany. Many in the antiwar camp traced their distaste for British military expeditions back to the Boer War. They had railed against the island-nation's imperialism, wanting nothing to do with abetting it. The fisherman held that Quebecers owed allegiance only to Canada. The other provinces tried to serve two masters—Canada and the British Empire.

The First World War had refocused the Francophones on the issue of militarism. Many were isolationists to begin with. Rioting ensued when conscription for all citizens was proposed. Nevertheless, Quebecois soldiers fought in the Great War. They had been scattered through the regiments of the regular Canadian Army, providing scant opportunity to distinguish themselves as an independent fighting force.

Emotions simmered during the intervening years of peace but boiled again following the Blitzkrieg that devoured western Europe in 1940. Allied losses raised the specter of drafting Canadians of French decent to fight against the Nazi-leaning Vichy government that Hitler installed after France fell.

There were those who believed that even if the Wehrmacht had ravaged the Armee de Terre, they had not subjected the civilian population of France to a harsh occupation based upon letters from family living under the Germans. Thus, many lacked the bloodlust for revenge.

Finally, being forced yet again into a British-style army further diminished support for Prime Minister McKenzie King's desire to aid Britain. His tutor at the helm of the trawler summed up the situation by stating that many of his Quebec compatriots were at best neutral in the conflict, some leaned towards Germany's side.

With such knowledge, he grew more sanguine about the aid that would be available from Canadians as he made his way across their land.

At a safe house in the woods outside of Quebec City, he listened to the alternatives for crossing into America. The contact wanted to drive him to the border with the state of Vermont where there existed a community—Stanstead on the north and Derby Line to the south—that the international boundary bisected.

His escort would drop him off on a street corner in Canada. Within one block he could stroll across a white line painted on the macadam, thus entering the US without ever speaking to an immigration official.

In the end he chose to make as much of the journey on Canadian soil as possible, believing he fit in better with the European oriented population north of the border. That route entailed a bus ride of approximately 2,000 kilometers on the Trans-Canadian Highway, during which he passed through nearly boundless forests.

At a stop in Ft. Francis, Ontario, he discovered the highway again drew close to the border. Only the Rainy River separated the two countries here. At the western end of town, homes with boathouses lining the waterway came into view. He made a decision to attempt a crossing into the US at this point and departed the bus.

It was late afternoon. He faded into the foliage. At dusk, skulking along the bank, he tried boathouse doors. Then an upended canoe appeared. Minutes after complete darkness the craft floated him to the American side.

Eventually another bus carried him to Minneapolis. There he located a contact previously identified by Halber during a briefing in Berlin. The Nazi sympathizer was a German immigrant who oversaw a fleet of delivery trucks for his employer. A ride to Kansas City, where Peter Oster lived, on one of the company's vehicles started the next day.

Forward in the cab of the van, he listened with interest to the driver. Also a German immigrant, the man behind the wheel provided a nonstop monologue covering every topic from American baseball teams to politics. This fellow was, as had been the fishing boat captain, none too pleased with what had transpired regarding civil liberties in North America since war had begun.

Because he had come to the US alone, contact with any disgruntled resident of the US might result in a possible accomplice. That included the operator of this truck. He began with a question concerning how tightly the driver was tied to his present occupation.

The trucker launched into an involved description of his wife, their six youngsters, his parents, and in-laws. The entire family group depended on the driver for economic support. He discarded the operator as a possible conspirator. But there were bound to be other candidates.

# Chapter 13

Mark Stark leaped off the front porch, hustling across the yard towards the car containing Opa. The two FBI agents were about to haul his grandfather away to jail following a scuffle. He had to do something.

Then Oma shrieked Anhalten! The wail stopped him in his tracks. Rationality took control. If the agents arrested him as well, his grandmother would have no one.

He stood helpless, watching the vehicle rumble across the cattle guard and disappear down the road. His life had been upended in minutes.

After turning away in frustration, he discovered Oma had collapsed on the front porch. She huddled there whimpering. He helped her inside. Despite his repeated efforts she remained inconsolable. Thoroughly unstrung, she stayed in her bedroom, weeping throughout the night.

Oma's reaction, while to be expected, concerned him. A few years prior she had suffered a stroke. Her recovery had been remarkable. She was able to carry out light chores. She maintained the household, cooked, and cared for her chickens. The doctor had cautioned that she should avoid stress of any sort since it might lead to another episode.

That in America lawmen could come into a person's home, treat them as the FBI men had, and then make the arrest of an innocent old man was shocking. He had learned about the US Constitution and the Bill of Rights in school. What had happened to all the protections those documents were supposed to provide?

The morning following Opa's arrest he went to the county courthouse hoping to free his grandfather. The jail deputy knew nothing of the event. He waited for the sheriff to show up. That lawman told him the FBI men who had come to the ranch worked out of San Antonio. His grandfather was undoubtedly there. At the telephone exchange office he began making calls and running up quite a bill before finally learning Opa's status.

Elhert and Flood, the two government agents, had booked Opa into the San Antonio jail where he remained. The prison officer referred him to the United States Attorney for more details. Then, before disconnecting, the jailer asked that Opa's personal items and any medications be brought to the jail—not a hopeful sign.

He eventually reached someone who explained the situation. The authorities believed Opa was a potential danger to the US. A hearing would determine his fate. Until then the elder Stark would remain behind bars. The government lawyer assured him notice of the hearing's date would be forthcoming.

During the intervening weeks Oma rode the bus to the jail several times. She retuned more depressed after each visit, telling him that imprisonment had changed Opa. Always testy, spending time behind bars had made her husband behave like an outlaw. There were loud bouts of squawking and other displays of hostility. His temperament, age, and the fact it was his first experience as a prisoner were undoubtedly weighing on Opa. Such behavior would not be helpful when they went before a judge.

His grandmother was also having trouble dealing with the situation. She grew despondent and withdrawn. Embarrassed over the situation, she would not speak with anyone, including her neighbor and best friend, Mrs. Rottlieb. He worried over the effect the stress was taking on her health.

Now the sole hand at the ranch, he toiled from dawn to dark to keep up with the chores. Work served as an excuse to avoid his friends. Laboring to exhaustion everyday at least allowed him some sleep at night. Otherwise he would have lain awake, fretting over the humiliation and frustration they suffered.

He took full responsibility for Opa's arrest. The aging of his grandparents—their increasing need for someone to look after their welfare—had been creeping up for years. During boyhood his father had managed things for all of them.

As he was sure all boys must, he loved his mother. She was kind, caring, adoring; the embodiment of everything a child could want. He reached the age, nonetheless, when the fathering need swells, when dad assumes the nurturing.

He idolized his father—a man that could handle any chore, fix any machine, or solve any problem. The two of them drew close as father taught son lessons of life, those that boys learn best from fathers. Their bonding had begun around the age of eight. At age nine his dad vanished without even a good bye.

The day had started as many others that summer. The sunny morning found them breakfasting in the shady front yard. It was cooler outside than in the limestone house, which only reluctantly shed the previous day's heat during the overnight hours.

Opa set off for a nearby ranch, remarking he would be home about suppertime. The eldest Stark had agreed to give a neighbor some help selecting which stock to sell at an upcoming auction. He spent the morning alongside his parents cutting salt cedar saplings that were invading one of the pastures. They needed to be nipped when small.

Back under the oak tree Oma served lunch. The four of them watched clouds gather on the southwestern horizon as they chatted about a wished for thundershower to cool the day. His parents headed back to chop down more cedar. He had planned to work with them.

Oma, however, needed help washing down the hen house. It was a nasty chore but went faster with someone handling the hose and another sweeping out the waste. With the cleaning well along, they began to hear thunder rolling in the distance. Soon sprinkles pattered on the tin roof. Lightening closed in around them.

They dropped their tools, rushing towards the ranch house. Before reaching the thick stone residence, a roaring sound charged at them. Wind whipped from every direction. They scurried down the stairs into the root cellar.

Huddled in a corner he and Oma cowered as a tornado tormented the premises. Debris flailed the house. Limbs crashed down. The windmill groaned, struggling to remain upright. Then the storm moved on.

They stepped into the yard to find chaos. The table and chairs they had eaten at earlier had disappeared, apparently carried away by the winds. The clothesline, flung down by the storm, was devoid of washing. Some of the items had snagged on snapped tree limbs.

At work for some time policing the yard, Oma mentioned it odd his parents had not come to check on them. His mother and father should have realized the storm would have left the premises in an uproar.

When his parents had still not returned a few minutes later, he and Oma set out to find them. After emerging from a cedar break, his eye caught on a collapsed shed across the pasture. They had been working near it earlier. He galloped off. Oma could not begin to keep up.

As he raced towards the ruined structure, he kept telling himself that his parents were not under it. They had probably gone to check on damage to other out buildings.

Before reaching the pile of metal a flash of red and blue appeared. His mother had been wearing a red blouse and blue jeans. She lay beneath a sheet of twisted tin. He yanked at the metal, ripping his palm. By then Oma had trotted up breathless.

The two of them managed to roll back the roofing. His parents lay entwined in the mass of tin and wood, their heads bent at awkward angles. A stout cedar beam had fallen across both their necks. He spoke to them, receiving no response. With his ear on each chest, he listened for a heart beat. Nothing.

There were many times as the years passed that he wished he had not witnessed the scene where they had perished. It took months to regain his emotional footing following the deaths.

While recovering he began to realize how much his father had seen to the family's well-being. At age nine many tasks were beyond a boy, but he started by helping his grandparents with translations. That evolved into other matters that required an ability to read and write English. As his strength and knowledge multiplied other duties fell to him.

It was a gradual evolution. As Oma and Opa aged he matured, increasingly bridging the gaps on matters that were becoming harder for them to accomplish on their own. Without realizing it until this trouble with the FBI blew up, he had become the parent and they the children.

With Opa imprisoned he agonized over how he might have served his grandparents better. He certainly should have paid more attention to their immigrant status once the war began. When the Federal agents showed up things might have gone differently if he had been more forceful with his grandfather. It was, of course, too late to change the situation. Now he could only do everything in his power to bring Opa home.

A notice eventually arrived informing them of the date that the Enemy Alien Hearing Board would decide Opa's fate. The panel would recommend one of three choices: letting him go free, sending him to a detention camp, or deporting him back to Germany. Someone in Washington, D. C. at the US Department of Justice would make the final decision based on evidence gathered at the upcoming proceeding.

He read the rules for the hearing. His grandfather was entitled to one "advisor" to help him. This person could not be a lawyer. He felt comfortable handling the translation. He further believed a seasoned judge who was fair and impartial would surely realize Opa was a harmless rancher and let him go home to live out his remaining years.

# Chapter 14

On the day of Opa's hearing Mark and his grandmother traveled to a government building in downtown San Antonio. They waited their turn in chairs lining a long hall amongst others who were also there for proceedings.

Eventually they were shown into a sparsely furnished conference room. An oblong table occupied its center. As Opa's advisor he could sit at the table with him. His grandmother chose a seat behind them along the wall.

A uniformed guard escorted Opa in. He was dressed in his best clothing—a white shirt with necktie and black trousers. These had been purchased for the funeral of Mrs. Rottlieb's mother some years prior.

He embraced his grandfather. Oma joined them. They conversed in whispers for a few moments. Opa seemed subdued but looked healthy.

The door opened. A man wearing a dark suit stepped in. After taking a seat at one end of the table near stacks of files, he remained silent. The three of them broke apart. He and Opa sat down at the table, waiting quietly. Oma resumed her place.

After several minutes three men entered. The trio of judges—dressed in business suits, not robes—occupied chairs directly across the table. A stenographer followed them in. She sat at the free end of the table and started penning notes.

One of the men began by reading a statement outlining the rules of the proceedings. Those rules stated that Opa was not entitled by law to this hearing. The government was allowing the proceeding as a matter of "fairness."

He was stunned when he realized that a person who had resided in America for decades could be locked up or deported without a hearing, if some faceless bureaucrat so determined.

The three men who would decide Opa's fate were ordinary citizens, not law court judges. Mark was certain none were from his community. They would not know of the Stark family's longstanding in the area.

The spokesman for the three "panel members" began by saying that the FBI had gathered certain "evidence." During the hearing a government attorney, the man sitting at the end of the table near the files, would ask questions. The trio would listen to the answers and then decide Opa's fate.

"The detainee is entitled to an advisor, is that you, young man?" The spokesman asked him.

"Yes, sir."

"State your name."

"Mark Stark."

"The detainee is not entitled to legal representation. Are you a licensed attorney, Mr. Stark?"

"No, I'm his grandson."

He explained that Opa did not speak enough English to feel comfortable responding and needed help.

The government attorney sitting at the end of the table said that he was agreeable to having Mark translate for the "detainee." The hearing began with the lawyer advising that he would first review the information on a statement that Opa had provided when registering as an alien.

Several years ago he had helped his grandparents complete the form, He recalled it was when he was barely driving, which would have been before the war began. The information was required by a new law and applied to all foreigners living in the US.

The lawyer, who was quite loud and brusque, asked if the information, such as Opa's age, place of birth, address, occupation, and political affiliations, contained in the statement were correct. At each question his grandfather glanced over, Mark nodded. Opa replied "ja."

"Now moving on to the present," the attorney began, "you did not produce your Enemy Alien Identification card for FBI Agents Elhert and Flood when they visited, did you? In fact, you were not carrying that document, as required, on your person, were you?"

Besides the earlier alien registration, after war was declared in 1941 this second item was used to identify aliens coming from enemy nations. After completing the paperwork, the government had issued Opa the identification card which contained his photo. Opa kept the card in his wallet. The wallet and card stayed in his grandparent's dresser except when they made an occasional visit into town.

He translated the attorney's question. His grandfather whispered in German that he did not remember the agents asking for the card. Neither did Mark. The tussle had erupted within moments of the start of the interview. The fact the card was not on him probably became known only when they arrived at the jail.

Opa leaned in telling Mark to explain why the card had not been in his pocket at that moment, that it was too easy to lose it while working in the pastures. A pat on his grandfather's arm settled that issue.

Appearing quarrelsome would not serve them well. He would admit it was not in his pocket but point out it was nearby. There was another problem relating to the identification card. He hoped the lawyer did not know about it, believing it might be better to move onto another subject.

"He did not have the card on his person when the FBI men showed up," he replied. "But it was—"

The attorney interrupted before he could say the card was in a dresser in the bedroom.

"The detainee has never become a 'naturalized' citizen." Then the lawyer turned and asked Opa, "Is it not true that it was only just before your arrest that you first made out a Declaration of Intent—the first step in proving you wanted to become a loyal US citizen?"

He had previously confirmed from his grandmother that the elder Starks had only formally sought citizenship recently. When they immigrated almost forty years earlier, they had intended to become naturalized citizens and started learning English.

Soon a son was born. Then Opa received a small inheritance which allowed them to begin assembling their own ranch. Before long daily life had impinged on the path to citizenship. The passing years had further dimmed that goal.

It appeared to him that although the elder Starks did not have a certificate attesting to their citizenship, they believed their situation and actions over many years proved their loyalty. They owned property, paid taxes, abided by the laws and customs of their adopted homeland. Oma and Opa considered themselves Americans.

At this stage in their lives the possibility of learning enough English to pass the tests was beyond them. He foresaw them living out their remaining years, as they had their lives, in semi-seclusion on the land they cherished.

Nevertheless, he had urged them to complete the initial citizenship application. The war was causing some Americans to resent persons of German heritage. He was aware of the treatment the Japanese in California had suffered. Applying for citizenship would at least be a demonstration of allegiance to the United States.

To the judges, in response to the pending question of not having applied for naturalization until recently, he responded, "Years ago when they first arrived—"

The lawyer cut him off again. "You can get into that later." Then the US attorney spoke to the panel, in effect answering for Opa. "The fact is that the detainee has not previously chosen to become a citizen."

The three men across the table listened attentively, but he could not tell how they were perceiving these exchanges. It certainly appeared that the government lawyer was attempting to bully them with his loud, overbearing interruptions.

"As further evidence of the detainee's lack of respect for the laws of the United States, you were several months past deadline in reporting your status as an 'Enemy Alien,' were you not?"

That was true, unfortunately. He had worried the tardiness might come up in this proceeding. Earlier in the hearing he had decided to avoid a dispute over Opa failing to have the card in his pocket when the FBI showed up at the ranch. He had hoped the US attorney might have overlooked the late application.

Since Opa's detention and with the hearing pending, he had researched the ID card requirement. President Roosevelt had instituted the rule, even though Congress refused to pass such a provision. He was certain that in cities like New York where many foreigners lived the newspapers published the regulation.

Living away from town they rarely saw a newspaper. The radio had probably aired the new regulation but he had never heard of it. He learned of the provision only when the Rottlieb's mentioned it.

The following day he had taken his grandparents to the post office to register. On the wall there next to the most wanted criminals was a poster printed in German, Italian and Japanese providing the details.

The hearing room waited for an answer. He said, "We never saw it in the newspaper, or heard about it on the radio. As soon—"

"There is a radio in the detainee's home?" The lawyer acted surprised.

An Emerson receiver sat on a counter in the kitchen. The agents had apparently not got that far in their search before the scrap erupted. It was normally turned on only long enough each morning to hear the farm report and weather forecast, which he relayed to Opa. Once a week he tuned in to the "I Love A Mystery" program.

"Yes, we have a radio," he responded.

The lawyer scribbled something, then looked up, addressing the judges. "The Justice Department considers it a violation of the law for enemy aliens to possess a radio, you will please note. And do you keep a camera in your home?" The attorney then asked.

He supposed it was also against the law for them to own a camera. They did not. He answered "No."

The lawyer continued. "The FBI discovered books of German origin and correspondence from the Nazi government in the detainee's home."

He waited for the statement to be formed into a question so he would have the opportunity to explain the innocuous nature of the items. It never came. He mentally added this to the list of things he needed to cover when it was his turn to speak.

"When the FBI visited the detainee's home they found numerous weapons. You own several guns, do you not?"

"There are six rifles and one pistol," he spoke for Opa.

The attorney said to the board, "That is, as you know, an extremely serious violation. It is forbidden for enemy aliens to possess weapons."

He had never thought to check what the rules were. It seemed unimaginable that ranchers could not have a gun capable of killing livestock predators. The seven firearms might seem out of the ordinary. He would need to explain their purpose.

His grandfather had enjoyed target shooting. It had been a popular sport in Germany for centuries. Opa was a member of the local gun club, the schutzen verin. Mark had worked in the target house as a boy. He hung the bull's-eyes, and then sought cover in a tiny bunker just beneath them. During the competitions, after each shot, he would use a long stick to point out where the bullet struck the target.

The club had become mostly inactive due to the wartime shortage of ammunition. During the last marksmanship event the competitors had fired only three shots each. Everyone was conserving any ammunition they could obtain, reserving it for protecting their herds.

"Shooting is my grandfather's hobby. We also use the guns on the ranch to kill snakes and other varmints."

"Would that include government personnel?"

It took Mark but a moment to make the connection, to see where this question was headed. Opa must have been on a rant in the jail when it popped out. An explanation was needed.

"What you're referring to is a private joke. My grandfather is descended from a long line of sportsmen. I guess in his family when he was a boy—that was a different time, mind you—when they got upset with the government they'd talk about taking their 'rat gun' after them. It was said about aristocrats and bureaucrats."

"And would the list of 'rats' your grandfather might talk about gunning down include Democrats?"

"It's just a harmless saying. I'm sure lots of people say such things." He opened his palms in disbelief that such a remark was evidence of disloyalty to America.

The attorney ignored him, instead addressing the judges. "You have seen the official incident report filed by the two United States Government law officers who the detainee assaulted when they visited his residence. I have nothing further to add."

The panel spokesman fished out his pocket watch and checked the time. Then he asked the two men sitting beside him if they wanted to ask "the detainee" any questions. Neither did.

"Do you have anything to offer, son?" the spokesman asked.

The manner in which the hearing had been carried out was so disheartening that he struggled to gather his thoughts. While he'd had no idea what would come up at the hearing, he should have written down what he wanted to say in Opa's defense. After an awkward pause the words stumbled out.

"They've lived here for most of their adult lives . . . . They're just like other Americans . . . raised a family, own land . . . . He's old, please don't send him . . ."

At that point his voice broke. If he uttered another word he'd be in tears as the reality Opa might be taken from them hit him.

The hearing ended. The panel members and the government lawyer left the table. The guard escorted Opa out. He and Oma left the building.

The tension generated by the hearing quickly turned to anger. The unfairness of the proceedings, with everything stacked against "the detainee," riled him. That name in itself appeared improper—implying that Opa was guilty and had been locked up, and must prove his innocence. That seemed to him exactly the opposite of what he had learned in school about the American principal of "innocent until proven guilty."

And where were the FBI agents? During a trial weren't there supposed to be witnesses to tell what had happened, to be made to answer questions from him? It was obvious from the hearing that Flood and Elhert held personal grudges because Opa had failed to treat them as they expected. Then there was the panel of three civilians. They weren't law court judges at all. Who knew what prejudices they held?

Now raging, they passed a newspaper office. He was an American by birth. His mother's people were full-blooded Americans, settling here many generations ago. His father had been born here. This was a free country. Citizens could complain as loudly as they wanted.

Grabbing Oma's elbow, he stormed into the newspaper. A reporter listened to the story of what had happened to Opa. A photographer shot pictures.

A few days later a clipping of the newspaper's article about Oma and Opa showed up in their mailbox. It had been placed there anonymously.

At the top of the page, above a picture of he and Oma, a headline screamed: "Roosevelt and his thugs worse than Hitler!" He had made that or a similar comment, even though most of the interview had centered on the story of his grandparents immigrating to this country and becoming productive members of society.

The article also misrepresented some of Oma's statements. One particularly rankled him. The reporter had asked her if she "liked Germans and Germany?" She had replied positively. She had also added that her attitude concerning her former homeland and countrymen did not extend to Hitler and his Nazis. The reporter left that part of the comment out of the story.

In the days since the hearing he had cooled off, recalling that decisions of the three judges could be appealed. The authorities in Washington would surely realize the proceeding had not been fair to his grandfather.

He had since learned that it was not against the law for an alien to own a radio receiver designed for listening to commercial radio stations. Only transmitters and shortwave sets had been banned. The government lawyer had intentionally misled the judges, he thought. That should be pointed out.

He did regret his outburst at the newspaper and the publicity it had triggered.

The dawn of his disgust with his nation coincided with the arrival of a form letter from the United States Immigration and Naturalization Service advising them of Opa's fate. The box labeled "Detained" had been ticked. A blank line with the words "Crystal City, Texas" written in indicated the camp he would be sent to.

He called the INS in Washington DC to find out how to enter an appeal. A sympathetic lady explained the process, advising that he probably should hire an immigration lawyer to handle the matter. Such counsel was permitted after detention was ordered. She also pointed out that to her knowledge, there had been no reversal in decisions to date.

Oma and he were still trying to decide what to do next in their quest to free Opa when, a few weeks before Christmas, a letter from the INS came. Oma would be permitted to visit Opa in his camp over the holidays.

In order to help her make the trip and to see Opa, he wanted to go along. He spoke with the office that had sent the letter. They said only wives were allowed to go. Oma spent several days in the kitchen preparing Opa's favorite goodies. Along with two big baskets of food, he put Oma and her suitcase on the bus.

Alone on the ranch Christmas seemed like just another winter day. If their neighbors, the Rottliebs. had been home he would have spent it with them. But they were away celebrating with a son who lived in a distant city.

A day after New Years he stood beside the main highway waiting for Oma's bus. It rolled past never slowing. He jumped in the old truck and chased it down. She was not aboard, although that was the date they had agreed she would return. He met the bus on two succeeding days, never finding her aboard.

When he contacted the office that had sent the letter inviting her to the camp, they provided a telephone number at the facility in order to make a direct inquiry. After several calls to the camp, a voice on the other end informed him Oma had decided to remain in the camp with her husband; he should ship her clothing.

The news Oma had elected to stay with Opa was upsetting. His first thought was that the camp officials had coerced Oma into remaining in the camp.

However, he soon began to recognize that there might be a reason for a voluntary decision to move into the camp. Imprisonment had rattled Opa—the Christmas visit would have been Oma's first extended experience with the potentially deteriorating mental state of her husband. She may have felt her place was with Opa, and that the ranch could manage without her.

That they were together did not stop him from being concerned about the well being of both of them. He particularly worried about the government's program of sending internees out to pick crops. The work was voluntary, paying only pennies per hour. Regardless, the two of them were not ones to be idle. They might have determined such labor would be another demonstration of loyalty to their adopted country.

If Opa was bored and laboring in the fields to fill his days, Oma was likely to join him. Her health was not nearly as strong as her husband's. That kind of work might kill her.

# Chapter 15

Daylight began to highlight the Kansas City skyline as the truck Dangler rode in from Minneapolis reached the city limits. Modern skyscrapers dotted the horizon. The van rolled past huge grain elevators standing near a rail yard. They crossed a river and entered the downtown area.

The widths of the streets were surprising. They were laid out in a precise grid. The man behind the wheel, whom he had considered recruiting, said it owed to the pioneer years. Wagons bound for the western frontier needed room to navigate the streets. Within a couple of blocks the driver told him it was time to part ways. Dangler clambered down from the cab.

He was sorry to see the operator depart. The trip had been his first opportunity to spend time with an American. He had learned much about what to expect when he began interacting with US citizens on a daily basis.

The conversation with the driver also served as an opportunity to determine how much trouble he would have communicating in English. Years of reading clippings and articles in English had provided a wide-ranging vocabulary. Wrestling those words into thoughts voiced in a foreign language had been challenging, but he was growing more adept with every sentence.

Peter Oster's mother had given Dangler an address in Kansas City where she believed her son lived. He hoped to persuade Peter to take part in the jet engine theft. Then the two of them could free brother Jupp, a U-boat captain, from the prisoner of war camp in Brownsville.

At a telephone box he searched the directory for restaurants, eventually coming across "The Bavarian Cafe." He needed to eat and reckoned someone there might help with his sketchy English. The city boasted a German community. The walk to the restaurant was but a few blocks.

As the waitress handed over the bill for breakfast he showed her Peter Oster's address, which he had printed on a napkin. She sketched a crude map depicting how to find the man's residence.

The location was approximately one mile away. He hiked to the address, absorbing the sights and sounds of an American city coming to life. Isolated from the ravages of war, civilian life here seemed to be bustling with ordinary daily routines.

Chattering happily, groups of well-fed children walked towards schools. A man delivered bottles of milk to door stoops. Auto buses chugged from corner to corner, debarking and embarking passengers. The war seemed not to exist in this city.

Upon arriving at the apartment building, Dangler learned Oster no longer lived there. He had not provided his neighbors with a new address. This was a disappointment. However, Peter was at one point active in the German-American Bund. He would explore that avenue next.

Germans represented the largest ethnic group in America. In some northern states over 40% of the citizens traced their lineage back to Prussia. They had always been a significant part of the immigrant flow. The disastrous end to the Great War sent another flood abroad as economic opportunities ebbed in Europe.

Many of the new arrivals eschewed the "old country" and its values, choosing to become Americanized. There was a minority that wished to pass their heritage along to upcoming generations. A variety of German clubs sprang up in direct proportion to the number of immigrants locating in a community.

Within the postwar emigres from the Great War was a strain who had accepted xenophobic ideals. This group soon realized wide spread racism existed in the United States as well. Many of these new comers considered themselves loyal, patriotic Americans. They also believed that communists, Jews, and colored people were the root of chaos that could wreck their adopted home.

Eventually an alliance of the social clubs that shaded towards fascism congealed around the Bund. With Hitler's ascendancy they began trumpeting his principals in the social clubs. The Nazis realized these groups represented a perfect venue for showcasing their political model among Americans.

As international relations tautened the Bund grew more strident in its criticism of President Roosevelt's posture regarding Germany. More sinister objectives, in the eyes of US authorities, were soon attributed to the organization.

Following America's joining the war the Bund had gone underground; and underground political meetings had been outlawed. The group changed its name to the innocuous "Protective Trustee Committee" with a trustee leading each region. That move did nothing to deter FBI surveillance of their activities and only served to cause more of the participants to end up on "watch lists."

With the Bund now operating underground Dangler would need to do some snooping. At noon he returned to the "Bavarian Cafe." A waitress who spoke German—learned from her parents—served him.

She had moved to the metropolis from a small farming community in Kansas. Ellis County boasted a significant German population, many of whom had come to the Kansas City area in search of work. It appeared as if her contacts within the ethnic community might be far ranging.

On uncertain footing, rather than ask how to locate the Bund organization in Kansas City directly, he posed a backhanded question to the server. He conjured up an unfair deportation order affecting him, asking the best way to deal with it. During the meal she visited with a few other patrons. Before long he knew the site and time of the next Bund meeting.

Argentine, Kansas prospered in the shadow of Kansas City. Owing its name to the South American country, it was at one time home of the Western Hemisphere's largest smelting operation.

During the town's heyday in the Nineteenth Century countless Germans had settled there. Jobs were plentiful. Dangler could see a similarity to northwestern regions of the Fatherland. The Kaw River cut through the surrounding hills. It possibly reminded Ruhrland Germans of their roots.

He purposely showed up at the garage in Argentine where the Bund meeting took place half an hour behind the scheduled time—no need to have to stand around and explain himself as people entered. A Judas door cut into the sliding slabs allowed entry. The empty bays echoed with distant voices. A group of people knotted at the far end faced a rotund man, who stood atop a workbench.

As he approached the assemblage a voice bellow, "Hey, Oster, I'm a 'permanent resident alien.' Can they just go and put me on this 'Watch List?'"

"The FBI can do about anything they want. You're now an 'enemy alien,' according to the government."

"What's that mean?"

"Means you're a foreigner that came from a country at war with America."

Another voice spoke above the jarring. "It don't only mean they can arrest aliens. My uncle from New York is 'naturalized' and they carted him away to Ellis Island. Him and my aunt passed through there years ago. Broke her heart when he had to go back."

Another person had a similar gripe about his treatment by the US Justice Department. Oster sympathized with the man but said there was little an alien German could do to alleviate the harassment the immigrant complained of. A couple of other attendees also whined about their situation.

Listening to these exchanges it appeared they were more interested in airing grievances than carrying out subversive activities. Why were American authorities so sensitive about the Bund?

Eventually the bellyaching trailed off. Oster advised them to behave, not do anything to bring the authorities down on them. Then he announced the date they would gather the following month, before calling the meeting to an end.

He loitered near the exit, nodding as the attendees drifted out. Meanwhile, two young men standing by the workbench were aiding Oster into a sitting position on its edge. Then they eased him onto his feet.

A few more farewells, then Oster waddled toward the door.

"Herr Oster, may I have a word with you?" he asked in German.

The man's pink eyes measured Dangler suspiciously. "Do I know you?"

"We have not met. But I recently spent a morning in Bonn chatting with your mama."

Oster halted; a puzzled look crossed his florid face.

"We visited about your brother, Jupp. I've come all the way from Germany to speak to you about him."

Studying him, Oster tamped a cigarette from a pack.

"Jupp is a prisoner of war. I'd like to discuss something in private—a matter that concerns you and your brother."

Over a flared match Oster said, "We can go to my apartment. It's nearby."

Walking at a leisurely pace, he listened to Oster wheeze. From the moment he had spied the obese man worries about his ability to function, if and when they went into action, nagged.

At approximately forty years of age, Oster appeared not to have exercised much since childhood. Along with a flabby belly, the nicotine stained fingers and veined nose hinted of a life lived to excess.

If he were picking teams for sports Oster would be last chosen. Still, for the moment his participation meant everything. He had crossed the Atlantic and made his way to Kansas to find Oster—maybe the one German-American out of thousands properly related and possibly inclined to help.

He would need to risk the entire mission in the coming minutes, reveal critical secrets, and hope Oster joined the conspiracy. Considering what he had witnessed earlier at the meeting, he had doubts how militant these Bund members were. He had, admittedly, missed the first portion of the gathering. Maybe that was when they were plotting rather than whimpering?

While mounting the stairs to Oster's apartment, Dangler framed the coming conversation. He would start with vagaries about Kreigsmarine officials wanting to free Jupp. The true objective of heisting the jet engine could be revealed later, once he had a more complete understanding of Peter Oster's personality and motivations.

His host had opened two bottles of beer and they had settled on a lumpy sofa when a fist thundered on the apartment door.

Oster started up from his seat. The speed with which he arose telegraphed to Dangler that there was cause for concern.

"You're not expecting anyone, are you?" Dangler hissed.

Alarm scrawled on his face, Oster splayed a hand to signal silence.

"You in there! Federal Bureau of Investigation!"

He stared at Oster.

"Let us in, or we are coming in firing!"

The bulky man finally moved toward the door.

"Don't shoot I'm just on the other side. We're not armed. I'm going to open the door slowly."

After Oster had detached a security chain and thrown back a deadbolt, he twisted the knob and inched the door open. It moved but a fraction before flying back into Oster's face. Through the door crowded several men wearing business suits and brandishing revolvers.

"Hande hoch!" one of the agents barked.

# Chapter 16

A cold wind rattled a loose gutter downspout. Mark Stark mentally added the drain's repair to the list of chores needing attending to when winter passed. The raw, grey day matched his mood.

He stirred embers in the living room's iron stove, then added another log. He wondered if the blast of polar air had reached the camp that Opa and Oma were in? Were they warm, did they have enough heavy clothing to keep from catching pneumonia?

With the fire stoked he returned to stewing over the ranch's future. Since living here alone he had come to realize how much effort it took to keep the place operating.

He had already given the neighbor, Mrs. Rottlieb, the chickens to add to her brood. The livestock required more tending in winter—herding them in the barn for bad weather, providing more supplemental feed when the pastures went fallow.

A local rancher had dropped by recently inquiring about the possibility of buying or leasing some of the herd and pastures. The man had seemed amenable to a variety of options.

His father and Opa had assembled the ranch in several hard-won parcels. As the heir, letting any of it go was emotionally painful. Nevertheless, he and the rancher had agreed to talk further.

The guttering banged again. Then he realized it was someone knocking. He opened the door to a man dressed in a grey overcoat and brown derby hat.

"Mr. Stark, my name is Tauton Audrey. I work for the United States Government. May I come in?"

He considered sending the man away. The last visit from the government had ruined his life. Unfriendliness wasn't in his nature. He nodded and stepped aside. Audrey entered.

"What do you want?" he asked after closing the door.

Audrey stepped to the stove, kneading his hand together in the radiated heat. "Before I get into that I want you to know that I'm here on an 'informal' basis. Mind if I sit?"

Not waiting for an answer, Audrey shed the overcoat, drawing a chair nearer the stove. Beneath he wore a three-piece black suit. The brown derby hat remained on his head tilted back to reveal thinning gray hair.

"I wanted to stop by for a little chat before the 'shit hits the fan.'"

He had imagined such a visit might be a possibility, considering his notoriety following the story in the San Antonio newspaper about Opa and Oma. Nevertheless, the arrival of that moment rattled him.

"First thing I want to say is that I disagree with them locking up your grandpa. I could mumble around trying to justify that 'citizens court' and the bureaucrats up the line, but I won't. It was wrong."

Audrey seemed to smile sympathetically, although it was difficult to determine. When not speaking Audrey's lips maintained a near constant grimace. The eyes had softened as he stated his position.

"Are you here to speak to me about freeing my grandparents?" He brightened.

"Sorry, son, that's outa' my department. I'm a mere cog in a huge machine. I am here to visit about your situation."

"What are you talking about?" He wondered if it had to do with the ranch.

"You had some words with Judge Burns, right?"

The judge was the top elected officer holder in the county. He had never had any contact with the man until recently. Neither Opa nor Oma could vote. They weren't "political" people anyway. There had not been an election since he had come of voting age. Burns, a Democrat, was the highest local official with whom he might speak about obtaining help releasing his grandparents.

"Yeah, I went to see him. I thought he was supposed to look after 'little people' like us. That's what his campaign signs said. He wouldn't lift a finger to help them."

During that interview his temper had boiled over. Some of Opa's ornery nature popping out in him?

Audrey fished a handkerchief from a hip pocket and wiped his nose. "I don't know, and don't want to know, what was said at that meeting. But the judge was mighty upset when he called San Antonio."

"He's like a lotta' politicians," he sneered, "all talk. I didn't insult him or anything—just told him he was pretty low for ignoring a couple of hard working old people who needed his help right at the moment."

"Regardless, the folks who run these small towns all 'wash each other's hands,' if you know what I mean?" Audrey observed.

He nodded, wondering what was coming next.

"Have you had any contact with your local Draft Board recently?"

"Not since they first classified me as an agriculture worker. They said that I was in an essential job."

The Draft Boards were panels of local citizens who decided which young men from their communities would be called to meet the manpower requirements for soldiers. Such committees had been established following the passage of a law that required compulsory military service for all young, able bodied men.

Certain occupations, including farm workers, might be exempted because their labor was deemed essential to the war effort. But for the need to help his grandparents keep the ranch productive, he would have already willingly volunteered and tried to join up.

He often wished to be in uniform, since he experienced a level of guilt resulting from his being an apparently fit young man not serving his country. Due to a quirky health issue he doubted in the end the military would take him anyway.

"My guess is," Audrey said daubing his nose, "that Judge Burns has spoken with your Draft Board."

A pattern was emerging. Had the rancher's offer to take the herd been part of the scheme to punish him through conscription for laying into Burns?

"I'll go in the army, if they'll have me."

Lips taut, Audrey cocked a quizzical head. "That's interesting?"

He didn't know what the Justice Department man meant by the remark, and waited silently.

"You know, they probably have initiated a file on you after that newspaper story."

"What's that mean?"

"They'll be keeping an eye on you. You've made an enemy of Burns; he'll report any missteps to San Antonio. That will then be reported on to Washington, most likely."

"Some country we live in. A man speaks his mind about an unfair situation and Hoover has a file on him. That's the way it started with Hitler, so I've read. Speak out against the powerful and they'll squash you like a bug, huh?"

Audrey ignored the comment, responding amiably, "You don't want to be on anyone's 'list' in these times, son."

Did he really give a damn? His family was gone, his home coming apart.

"See, if you do get drafted it's going to be tough enough, without having anyone starting out against you."

"What are you talking about?"

"At the training centers those sergeants are real S-O-Bs. They got old buddies that are now dead at the hands of Germans. Word gets around camp that you're German and got a beef with the government and they'll pick on you. They gotta' have someone to knock down, just to keep the rest of the new men in line."

"How they gonna' know about my past. I'll just be another number to them."

"Maybe, maybe not. It oughtn't to happen, but I hear it does. Someone leaks the word out about people the government has reason to suspect—"

"Suspect of what? That I've complained about Roosevelt and Hoover. I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"Like I said, it shouldn't, but I've heard it does."

He jumped up and stomped out the door into the yard. A limb had fallen from an oak. He grabbed it, then heaved it with all the force he could muster into some high grass nearby. His adrenaline souped he found another one and slammed it into a stout trunk. The dead wood shattered. He was about to stalk away, when Audrey called from the porch.

"Before you huff off I need to tell you about something that might make a difference."

"What?" He didn't bother to face Audrey.

"It's an alternative to military service."

"I've told you, I'll go if they want me. I'll take my chances with the Drill Instructors. I'm not a baby like some of those boys just out school that never pushed more than a pencil."

"Kid, you haven't even heard what I've got to say. It's much too involved to discuss by shouting across the yard at each other."

He glared at Audrey.

"The very thing that might cause you a hard time in an induction center may be an asset you haven't considered," Audrey called.

# Chapter 17

Dieter Dangler sat across a table from a pair of government agents in a windowless room in Kansas City.

The FBI men who had burst into Peter Oster's apartment earlier that evening following the Bund meeting had soon satisfied themselves that neither he nor Peter were armed. They wasted no time asking questions in Oster's rooms, preferring, apparently, the intimidation lent by more austere surroundings. Once they arrived at the federal offices, agents led Oster away. Dangler suspected both of them would be thoroughly examined and possibly imprisoned.

As he waited for the federal agents to begin their interrogation he recalled how an untimely weather event set the stage for thousands of United States residents to suffer wartime imprisonment.

Hard on the heels of the Japanese raid on Pearl Harbor, rare thunderstorms had lashed Southern California. This type of atmospherics, common throughout much of the rest of the North American landmass, was so unusual on the West Coast that the goosey citizenry believed it to be a Japanese attack on the US mainland. The bolts of lightening appeared as exploding shells, the thunder resembled naval cannonading to the anxious Californians.

By late 1941 America was on a war footing. The coast hummed with tension. Jittery civil defense spotters spooked by the thunderstorms began reporting enemy aircraft circling above Los Angles. An antiaircraft battery fired a random barrage. To effect a blackout power to the city was shut down. Radio stations fell silent. People ran from their homes, recalling the reports from Honolulu City as Japanese bombers had raked that town only 3 days earlier. The Los Angles blackout resulted in melees between drivers, police, and pedestrians.

Mass panic of such a nature was not unheard of even in sophisticated America. On October 30, 1938, a radio broadcast had caused similar hysteria. The show, which aired nationwide, interspersed news bulletins into a Halloween evening musical presentation. These interruptions reported that Martians were in the process of invading a New Jersey town.

Thousands of people hearing only small portions of the show took to the streets with weapons to protect home and loved ones from the aliens. Only at the end of the presentation did H. G. Wells, author of War of the Worlds, reveal the hoax.

With dawn peace returned to Los Angles after the night of stormy weather and chaos, as civilians began to realize a Japanese invasion was not underway. Nevertheless, the riots served as a preview of the havoc an enemy landing would trigger. Politicians and the electorate were in no mood to risk such an event.

The resurrection of the Enemy Aliens Act sprouted directly from the situation. Under the 150-year old statute citizens of nations warring with America could be detained, even if there was only a threat of an invasion of the US.

Within days Roosevelt signed presidential proclamations declaring that all German, Italian and Japanese aliens over fourteen years of age were "enemies." These persons were required to register with the government, and carry identification cards. A slide down the slippery slope of incarceration and confiscation of property of such individuals came next as a nation grew paranoid and revengeful.

Roosevelt's actions ignited a firestorm of outrage. Libertarians, Republicans, and even Democrats baulked. A far-reaching coalition to stop the slide welled up from coast to coast.

The "Great Los Angles Air Raid" halted the movement to repeal Roosevelt's declarations. In late February 1942 Fort McArthur, located near Long Beach, California, went on full alert, after spotters reportedly saw enemy aircraft in the night skies. They were jittery because a cargo ship had been torpedoed only two miles offshore some weeks before. It had barely limped back to port.

While no civilians saw the planes over Long Beach, the Army, with grand fanfare, had 7,000 troops blustering around, readying for an attack. Many of those opposing the President believed the exercise had been engineered to sway public opinion—convincing the nation it was acceptable to send aliens to concentration camps and take away their possessions.

In the end American anxiety eventually led to thousands of persons living behind barbed wire. Dangler figured the odds of his joining them were high now that he was in FBI custody.

He began to realize that the two agents had sat silently studying him for what must have been fully three minutes. Now one finally spoke, asking in German for his ID. While tamping down the fear slithering along his spine, he fished the card proclaiming him to be a legal enemy alien from his wallet.

This would be the first test of the documents he had brought to establish his false identity. He had not been asked for them in his trek across Canada, nor as he made his way south through the heartland of America in a private truck. Fortunately, in the time since setting sail on the U-boat that brought him across the Atlantic he had grown to know his new personage.

One FBI man jotted down the particulars from the identification and stepped out. Dangler assumed the man was going to call his agency's Central Alien Registry in Washington DC in order to affirm the information. There were over a quarter-million people on file there.

The identification card lay on the table between he and the remaining agent, who observed him intently. He won the battle with his eyes, refusing to allow them to stray to the ID. Instead he stared at a square of space on the cream-colored wall above the agent's head. Silence continued as he considered the irony of the assumed name given the situation. They were checking out a "dangler," which in German was a vamp. Dangler was about to learn if he was, indeed, a seducer of men who could lead them astray.

The absent interrogator reappeared, nodding positively to his partner. Apparently his papers had verified. He had always wondered if the personality whose name he now used had once been a living individual. That had to be the case here. The original Herr Dangler had probably died and the records in Washington were never updated. He had heard rumors that the intelligence agencies in Berlin maintained a pool of such names to call on when inserting a spy abroad.

The government men began asking a series of questions about his life and situation here in America. He reeled off previously memorized information. The two agents remained impassive, revealing not an inkling of how his answers were playing.

When the questions turned to his purpose for attending the Bund gathering, he calmed slightly. The initial responses were apparently satisfactory. He explained occasional attendance at the German organization's meetings as merely a need to socialize because he spent so much of his life away from New York City. A stranger to Kansas City—that is why he had a suitcase in hand when arrested—and visiting the metropolis for a few days, he had been looking for someone who might take him in as a temporary roomer.

He had actually visited a few hotels earlier that day but found them all booked. From his own purview of the city it was apparent that accommodations of any sort were undoubtedly hard to come by. Most industrial centers were flooded with war plant workers. Kansas City produced aircraft, military vehicles, and tank parts, among other things.

Next the agents asked what had taken place at the Bund meeting. He explained he was late in arriving. He told them of hearing complaints of others as to the treatment they were now subjected to.

The FBI men then questioned him about his relationship with Peter Oster. He could again answer honestly, explaining he had made his acquaintance that very evening. They had spoken as the meeting adjourned. Oster had asked him to his apartment to share a beer and get to know one another. If they got on he had planned to inquire about temporarily staying with the Bund leader while conducting business in the city.

He admitted to being a member of the Nazi Party. To do otherwise after attending a Bund meeting seemed implausible and begged for closer scrutiny. At about that time they were interrupted. A woman stuck her head through the doorway, telling the two FBI men they were wanted "upstairs." Before leaving the agents explained he had broken the law by attending the Bund meeting and would be held until a decision was made on that charge.

Minutes later a uniformed orderly came for him. The two of them exited the building and started along a sidewalk. He considered but then rejected the notion of attempting to escape. At this point release remained a possibility. Fleeing would undoubtedly place him high on the list of wanted persons. He was still debating the options when they entered an art deco structure that occupied an entire city block. The government man proceeded to check him into a holding facility.

An area the size of a soccer field, the arena floor of the Kansas City Municipal Auditorium contained long rows of bunks on which men slept or lounged. Guards kept watch from the spectator seating, which climbed steeply to the ceiling on all sides.

After locating an empty bed, he settled in and began chatting with a neighbor. Of Italian heritage, the detainee was a mason who told him of an earlier convention center building just across the street. It had been finished by hundreds of citizen volunteers so that a Republican national political convention could be held there on schedule after the contractors failed to meet their deadline. The Italian immigrant—a long time resident of the city—wistfully related how he had freely donated his skill to that civic effort. He had also worked on the structure they were now imprisoned within.

The multistory arena that held hundreds of prisoners now was once the scene of numerous events including circuses. To think he now slept where tigers roared and stunt men fired out of cannons flew.

A day later, while standing among other prisoners on a platform at the Kansas City Union Station, Peter Oster tapped him on the shoulder. Dangler had recognized several faces from the Bund meeting. Apparently many had been snagged in a roundup.

The group of aliens under the watchful eyes of the Border Patrol were, rumor held, headed for prison. He and Oster sat together when they boarded a train. The men grew silent when word spread they were slowing down at Leavenworth, Kansas.

The mood in the railroad car lightened when he and the others steamed out across the boundless grain fields of Kansas, thus at least avoiding that notorious prison. When the train reached Santa Fe, New Mexico, guards read the names of all but two internees. Those called filed off. Only he and Peter along with a few remaining officers rode in silence to a desert town further south where more uniformed men met the train.

From the back seat of an automobile, he watched the high desert roll by. He had never visited terrain vegetated with only sagebrush and cactus. In the distance higher, mostly treeless, peaks rose. A tiny village signposted Capitan passed by the windows. A few miles to the east they turned off the graveled highway, following a rutted road. Soon a compound came into view.

A tall woven-wire fence surrounded ranks of wooden structures that scaled a hillside above a creek. High guard towers marked the corners. Powerful lights stood ready to illuminated the fence line after dark. The entire scene was reminiscent of the camps Himmler had established to house laborers from conquered nations and possibly other persons whom Dangler preferred not to think about.

Guards escorted he and Peter to an adobe building located outside the fence but adjacent to a gated entrance. Within a Border Patrol officer took their dossiers and processed them into the Ft. Stanton, New Mexico, detention facility. A short meeting with the Chief Inspector-In-Charge followed. They stood, listening to the man explain "acceptable behavior" within his camp.

With the lecture finished and now back outside, the gate opened. They marched through the perimeter fencing. A rock lined path divided two parallel rows of whitewashed, wooden structures containing sleeping quarters, workshops, and a mess hall. He was directed towards a barracks. Upon entering someone spoke up welcoming him to his new home—temporarily, he hoped.

Lying in a bunk later, he considered the incarceration and what it meant for his mission. The FBI had evidently determined that he was not engaged in subversive activities. Otherwise he would have been delivered into the legal system for trial and execution.

Nevertheless, this camp, the commander had pointed out earlier, housed Nazis who were considered not only "dangerous enemy aliens" but also "elevated risks" to US security. As a result the prisoners here received "stricter treatment" than those aliens in other internment institutions. His association with Bund leader Oster had possibly resulted in the determination.

Certainly communing with these remorseless Nazi inmates provided a potential pool for enlisting a team of subversives. The choices would have been reduced had he ended up with hapless souls of Germanic descent who had been locked away owing merely to their foreign citizenship.

The long train journey from Kansas City had provided an opportunity for him to become acquainted with Oster. Peter admitted his involvement with the Bund's national leadership. Among them was Fritz Kuhn, the former Bund head now imprisoned in Sing Sing. He also claimed to have been in regular contact with Kuhn's successor, Gerhard Kunze, until the man fled to Mexico to avoid arrest.

So Oster's politics were of the right persuasion. He had casually drawn Peter out concerning the relationship between the brothers. Beyond the initial mention of Jupp's status as a POW, he had refrained from discussing any details of the mission with so many other ears about. Nevertheless, he was confident he had found his first conspirator in Peter.

Although the "dangerous" aliens locked up here provided a fertile recruiting ground, breaking free of its confines might be more difficult than at a camp for tamer internees. Its isolation seemed the greatest hurdle. The fence and guards appeared to be manageable difficulties that could be overcome after gaining knowledge of the procedures and then given the proper situation.

# Chapter 18

The Border Patrol officer jiggled the horse's reins. The mount moseyed several steps ahead. Then, familiar with the routine, the mare halted before being again commanded to move along the fence.

Bored and frustrated, the veteran inspector hunched in the saddle knew his skills were being squandered riding fence patrol at the Ft. Stanton facility.

Harvey Black had signed on with the Border Patrol at its inception in 1924. The 450 or so inspectors had been largely recruited from rural deputies in the beginning. He had followed his father into law enforcement at the county sheriff's office in 1919. Father and son had joined the new federal agency together. His father was now retired.

His dad had long enjoyed a reputation as a superior "sign-cutter." Beyond the BP ranks such a person would be called a "tracker," one who relied on brush markings and footprints to follow a trail. As a youth he had mastered those skills during outings with his father into the Southern Sacramento Mountains, some 100 miles north of their home in El Paso. There they stalked mule deer, elk, and black bear. Thus, Harvey too had entered the Border Patrol with a skill set already well honed.

Until his transfer to Ft. Stanton two years ago he had spent his career on horseback patrolling the border near El Paso. When the elder Black retired, Harvey aspired to carry on the family reputation. To that end, he invariably volunteered to go after the wiliest characters, who were normally whiskey smugglers.

To his good fortune, a murderer who had fled from Juarez, the city across the Rio Grande River from El Paso, made his reputation. Mexican Federales, believing the wanted man had slipped into the US, asked for help.

He dogged the wife-killer for more than three days before bagging him in the desert. The agency sent a truck and horse trailer to retrieve them. Upon arrival at the sector headquarters he remounted his horse and with the handcuffed killer roped in tow, rode through El Paso's streets to the international bridge where he surrendered the man to Mexican authorities.

The stunt became legend. His deed was front-page news. Harvey's fame eclipsed that of his father. Nevertheless, the exploit eventually brought him trouble, landing him in this forlorn setting.

From atop his mount and well up the hillside, he surveyed the surroundings. The internment camp he guarded was of recent vintage. But the adobe complex on the far side of the creek had started life as a cavalry outpost. It looked nothing like the forts portrayed in the western movies, however. It lacked a protective stockade, being only a collection of buildings picketing the square parade ground. Established in 1855, by the turn of the century peace with the indigenous Mescalero Apaches prevailed.

Soon a Merchant Marine hospital occupied the old fort's site. The cool, dry mountain climate benefited tuberculosis suffers. While sea air was an often recommended medical therapy, life in the damp conditions below deck laid some sailors low with the lung ailment. Interspersed among the original store houses and officer's quarters new medical structures sprouted.

Near the road leading up to "boot hill" lay terraced ranks of "shacks" serving as rooms for patients of the sanitarium. Each cabin housed two men deemed well enough to live outside the wards during the milder months. The hospital continued to function side by side with the internment camp.

When economic depression threw many out of work in 1933, the Civilian Conservation Corps determined rural Fort Stanton to be an ideal location for one of their encampments. Wooden barracks—now part of the prison—housed several hundred young men engaged in work projects. The CCC facilities fell into disuse after preparations for war brightened job prospects.

Ft. Stanton became a Border Patrol facility in 1941 following the settlement of several hundred German sailors in an expanded camp. The merchant seaman had been trapped by the onset of the European hostilities. They were originally held in California under lax security. After America went to war the sailors were moved to the more secure Ft. Stanton. A few weeks after the prisoners arrived Harvey arrived.

No doubt the notoriety resulting from parading the cuffed wife-slayer through El Paso was part of the motivation for this assignment. His superiors thought him too much of an adventurer. When the opportunity for exile to this backwater post arose, the bosses must have gleefully seized on it.

War brought detainment camps. Soon Ft. Stanton was expanded to incarcerate menacing Nazi foreigners, so they would not infect the milder German aliens in the more populous camps. Security tightened.

With the shift winding down, he turned his mount towards the stable. The animal broke into a trot, apparently realizing that she too was about to go off duty and that feed awaited her. He reached the sandstone complex on the east side of the fort and swung his bony frame to the ground. The mare sauntered into the barn on her own.

He followed the horse in, finding Mark Stark mucking out a stall. He had vowed not to like Stark when first they met. Stark was assigned to the stables. He had encountered him often enough to learn that the Texan fell into a unique category. Differing from other internees, the young man had volunteered to work in a camp since he could not pass a military physical exam. That softened Black's attitude. The two of them, Black had soon discovered, shared an interest in hunting game.

Stark called a hello when he entered the barn.

"What's going on, Mark?"

"Same ole', same ole'," Stark said. "How about you?"

"I'm due for a few days of leave. Going hunting before heading down to El Paso to see the family."

"Where 'bouts?"

"Up in the Sacramento Mountains. We've been planning it for some time. Me and a pal are going to hike the trail over to Cloudcroft."

"That a long walk?"

"Long enough. Not many hunters go as far back into the woods as we will. Won't see a soul. Should be good shooting."

As he unsaddled his horse and saw to her needs, the two continued to chat about the details of the planned hunt.

# Chapter 19

The morning following their arrival at Ft. Stanton, Dangler sought out Oster. The beefy man had managed to secure a lower bunk at the other end of the long room.

"Ready to go to breakfast, Peter?"

"Damned right, I'm starved."

Once within the common building—which served as lounge, meeting room, and mess hall—they passed down a cafeteria line before taking seats on a wooden bench at a sturdy table.

"This smells so good," Oster said, tucking into a plate heaped with hard-boiled eggs, sausage, cheese and dark bread.

"I'm surprised—it seems to be authentic German fare," he replied. "How do you suppose they manage that?"

A young man who had just banged a plate down across the table from them answered. "They got a whole farm here with pigs, goats, cows, everything. They even let those sailors make their own sausage. It also serves us. Name's Willi Thael. Where'd you two come from?"

As Oster, whose English was near fluent, gave a brief synopsis of their arrest and journey, he looked Thael over. The young American had light brown hair cut in the current fad for young Nazi males who wanted to emulate Hitler—clipped sides up to the level of the eyes where a distinct boundary marked longer locks on the crown of the skull. The effect was to make an already large head even more pronounced. Blue eyes and full lips completed the picture of a stylized Aryan.

"My folks were in the Bund, too. In Wisconsin," Thael commented on Oster's narrative. "I was in German youth groups. Wasn't exactly the Hitler Jugend or Jungvolk, but it was the closest thing we had to them here in America. The adults told us we were 'Germanic Boy Scouts.'

"We spent every summer up at Camp Hindenburg in our uniforms doing military drills. Those were some of the best days of my life. I had plans on joining the Ordnungsdienst. That's the militant arm of the Bund. But you know that."

He noted Thael's commentary. In Hitler's Germany all youngsters participated in instruction programs. Girls were members of the Bund Deutscher Madel. These programs were instituted to insure that children of families that refused to provide the necessary schooling in the home were indoctrinated. Nazism was instilled in the youth at an early age. That the Thaels living in America had provided such training probably meant the young man was a candidate for the mission.

"How did you end up here, Willi?" he began the vetting.

"I think they put everyone who went to the youth camps on a watch list. My timing was bad, too. Wasn't far out of high school when the Japanese attacked. The FBI went crazy after that."

"Were you involved in anything to make them suspicious?" he asked

"Me and few of my pals talked about trying some stuff." The lanky boy who lived in a runner's body went on. "The father of a friend had pretty deep ties to Berlin. We chose to think he was a spy. Some of us who wanted to do sabotage kept asking him for assignments. He said Hitler didn't want to anger the Americans, and to stay out of trouble for now. We could nose around military bases and keep our eyes and ears open, but that was the only thing we should do."

"They locked you up for that?" His command of English had improved vastly since entering North America. He spoke in an amalgam of two languages. Thael seemed to comprehend.

"Naw, at least not the first time. But the second time they found me hanging out around an aircraft factory, drinking with the employees when I didn't even work there the FBI warned me off. After I tried the same thing near an Army airfield, they sent me away. It was OK. I had a shit job in a 'greasy spoon' diner."

"That's when they put you in one of these places?" he asked.

"No, that time they told me I had two choices. I could go into a labor camp or move out in the countryside. I moved out to a farming area."

"What were you doing?"

"Building swales and berms to keep pastures from eroding."

"Were you locked up there?" he asked.

"Nope. The FBI just wanted us far away from any military or defense activities where we might spy. They let us go into town. That's what landed me in the first camp."

"You were spying?"

"I wish, but no. Come April 20th, you know, Hitler's birthday, some of us went into the little burg and gathered in the back room of a German tavern to celebrate. The owner was a sympathizer. There was bunting draping a big picture of my Fuhrer. The guy also had a flag he claimed had been consecrated by touching the Blutfahne."

He had found a true believer. Party founders claimed the tattered Blutfahne, or "Blood Flag," had been steeped in the blood of those killed in Hitler's failed beer hall putsch.

"We started singing the Fahnenlied." Thael beamed as he recalled the event.

Known as the Nazi "Banner Song," among Hitler Youth it was the equivalent of "Deutschland Uber Allies," the German national anthem.

"Right in the middle of the song the sheriffs busted in. It was late." Thael continued, "we'd all been tossing back a lot of brews. The law wanted to know what we were doing. Feeling my beer, I stepped forward and said it was my birthday, that my friends had just come to celebrate with me. I think we weren't fooling them at all, but they said 'show me some identification.' I pulled out my wallet. My ID had my date of birth on it, which is in January. They told us to break it up and go on home.

"It struck me wrong. We weren't out on the streets parading—that was against the law, even though every other political group could be out there marching with their flags. A few of the boys started for the door. Me and another guy ignored the deputies. All we did was turn around and lifted our mugs. They took the two of us into custody.

"Shortly thereafter I ended up in an internment camp. Funniest thing, I thought once I got there I'd be among like thinking people. But a lot of them were no friends of Hitler. They were a bunch of 'pansy asses.' I didn't get along with them."

"You mean homosexuals?" He guessed, having never heard the term before

"I didn't much care for those pantywaists, either. But, no, the ones I got into it with were men who didn't like Hitler anymore, or at least said they didn't once they got locked up. They were 'brown nosing,' trying to cozy up to the guards to get a good recommendation—maybe get out.

"I thought they should stand up for the Fatherland. I punched out one too many of them and ended up here. At least these guys are real Nazis. I don't mind talking to you openly like this because if you didn't think like me, you wouldn't be here. The guards call us 'hard cases.'"

About that time Peter plopped down with another full plate. "Are we going to be sent out to work in the fields in order to eat like this?" he asked Thael.

"Naw, they got about 400 sailors from a German ship here. They live in another part of the camp. Those guys been here so long they've become farmers themselves. Can't wait to play in the dirt."

He recalled the incident. The crew of the SS Columbus had, on the eve of the European war, been stranded in New York after scuttling the vessel to avoid it falling into enemy hands. It was considered a Nazi "flagship," making those who sailed her arch party loyalists, which he assumed many were since they had secured such premier berths.

"I didn't realize this is where they ended up," he said.

"Yeah, they've got the run of the place so to speak. We're in the minority. They got all sorts of privileges. Built themselves a swimming pool and tennis courts. They even provide us with a clinic."

After the meal he said to Oster, "How about a short walk to let that breakfast settle?"

They meandered along the fence nearest the creek. When they reached an isolated point where he could speak openly he turned the conversation to Peter's brother Jupp. "Now your mom has two sons locked away in American prisons. I want to help both of them escape."

Peter rounded on him in surprise.

"You want to hear me out?"

His friend nodded. "I'll listen, but I've got to be convinced. Everything has changed. We are locked in this camp now. We are known."

On that pessimistic note he began. He painted only the broadest of outlines: He had come from Germany. Berlin required access to a weapon of war located near Jupp's prison. Jupp had unique knowledge of how to complete the mission. He needed Peter to make the connection to Jupp. It took Peter until evening to decide. He chose to be included.

# Chapter 20

Within a week of arriving Dangler had become thoroughly acquainted with life in a detention camp. The routine of "day following day" soon led to a level of boredom he had never known. While there was physical exercise, the only mental stimulation he found was in hashing out the details of his mission.

He decided that the team should be limited to four, at least for making good an escape and until he ascertained the security surrounding the engine. Peter had committed.

An American who could lead them during a long trip through enemy territory was needed. Thael could fill the role but his Nazism was almost too overt to serve them well. He had, moreover, detected in Thael a certain rashness that created concern. There was no doubt where Thael's loyalties lay. He might never run across a compatriot with equal zeal. While counting Thael in, another conspirator, one more subdued, might serve them well. Such a person soon surfaced.

After supper the prisoners typically congregated in the recreation hall. Sometimes there was entertainment. Tonight they were gathering to view a film. "Lassie Come Home" would soon play on a white sheet tacked to a wall behind the raised stage.

With a bottled drink in hand, Dangler eased onto the bench next to Mark Stark. The young American that worked in the stable glanced up and nodded but said nothing. The blue eyes returned to his lap, leaving him staring at Stark's curly blond hair. The kid was lean but muscled. He had made a few inquiries about the young Texan. Those responses seemed to indicate the man should be vetted.

A moment later Oster wrestled his bulk onto the bench. He and Peter had discussed the benefits of adding to the escape cadre someone who was as close to a typical American as possible. The inmates in this camp were mostly immigrants who spoke German-accented English. Some had never before been west of the Hudson River in New York. Stark was an American through and through.

Leaning around Dangler, Oster spoke. "Mark, you met Dieter yet?"

"Seen him around."

Oster performed brief introductions.

"I hear you lived on a big farm? You have a dog that can herd animals like this 'Lassie' dog the movie is about?" Dangler began.

"I've had a bunch of pets in my life. None nearly as smart as Lassie, though" Stark said.

"You work down at the barn, right?"

"Yep."

"What do you do there?"

"Anything needs doing. Look after the horses, take care of the goats."

"Can I ask a personal question?" He wanted to delve into the youth's motivations.

"I guess."

"I was told that you are an American. By that I mean born here. Is that true?"

"Yup. Everyone born in the country is a citizen."

He had been surprised after learning that Stark was born in America, yet was in a camp. Such incarcerations occurred in Nazi Germany, but not, he had thought up until recently, in the United States. "They do that to citizens here, too—lock them up?"

"There's thousands of Japs in camps like this who are citizens."

"I can see how that happens to another race." Germany was imprisoning Jews. "But you are a regular American. How'd you end up in a place like this?"

"I made the wrong people mad."

Oster glanced at Dangler out of the corner of his eye and whistled his surprise before speaking. "What did you do to piss them off?"

"A lot of things, I reckon. The government did my family dirty. I was shooting my mouth off about it. Went to the newspaper, too. I was beginning to embarrass them. How were the 'Fibbies' going to explain what they'd done?"

At that point Stark crossed his arms, symbolizing he had revealed more of his private life then he wanted.

"That's it? Your government put you in here for that?" He was puzzled.

"Essentially. They wanted me out of their hair, weren't sure what I'd do next. They offered me work in a camp where my grandparents are locked up."

"Are they here?" He asked. That might preclude Stark from leaving.

"Nope. Should have known better than to trust the government. They never put me anywhere near my family. Now I'm here—about as cutoff as you can get from everyone."

At that point the lights went off and the movie started.

Over the next weeks he took every opportunity to get to know Stark better. One warm afternoon the men were lounging around outdoors. He decided the time had come to see if Stark might join the group. He spread his blanket on the ground next to the Texan. After some small talk he got to the point.

"I've never been a prisoner before," he said. "The worst part of this whole experience is the fence. It does something to a person."

A common phenomenon in Hitler's Germany, Gitterkrankheit, or "fence sickness" had profound effects on normal people. Once behind razor-wire, and treated like a number in an institutional setting, the values they held on the outside faded. The sense of individualism gradually disappeared, replaced by the attitudes and ideals of the community of prisoners.

He suspected the malady had been developing in Stark. Now that the young man was amongst foreign, Nazis aliens, he might be susceptible to turning against his nation.

"I'd agree with you about the fence," Stark volunteered. "I've lived my whole life in the out of doors, free to roam at will on acres of land. Now I look out at the freedom beyond . . . I know I'm not the same person as before."

"I'm sure having to associate only with outsiders like us might be an adjustment, too?"

"There was a fair amount of German tradition in my home. But, you're right. I've lived only in Texas. Beyond my grandparents and one neighbor, everyone else was an American. Now that I'm living day and night with foreigners I'm becoming one of you. I know I'm losing my American ways to some degree."

"We're not all like the people you see ranting in the Movietone newsreels, Mark. Don't ever start believing everything the newspapers say about us."

His story for the internees was that he had been trapped in America when war was declared. How he had come to end up in this camp for "hard cases," he claimed to have no idea, other than the misfortune of attending a Bund meeting that the FBI may have trailed him from. Details of the mission he had revealed only to Oster. He planned to bring Thael in at the last moment.

"Mark, from what you said the other night at the movie, I know that you feel strongly about the wrongs this nation has dealt out to you and your family?"

Stark stared at him for a moment. "I haven't got over it yet. The longer I'm here the more I'd like to go back to Texas and kill a person or two!"

He eyed the young man carefully.

"Hey, I'm just talking. I'd never do that; not in a million years. It just makes me feel better to say it."

"You really want a chance to go home?"

"Of course, I dream about being out of here. To be back like it was before all the trouble started."

"I'm going to tell you something, and I sure hope you keep it to yourself, regardless of how you feel about it."

"I guess."

"Some of us are planning an escape. We want to go to Germany."

Stark smirked. "People are always talking about escape."

"Put yourself in our situations. I'm a German national being held against my will in a foreign country. I've done nothing wrong, except the bad luck of being here when a war started. As for Oster, he is fed up with America. He has wanted to leave ever since the war began."

"Why are you asking me?"

"Mark, look around. You are the most Americanized of all these men. You can help us."

"Where are you headed if you do manage to bust out?"

"Mexico. We have to make our way to a place called Brownsville. It's a long trip down there from here. But that is where we must go because there is a contact there that can help us find our way back to Europe. If you want in part of the deal is that you must stay with us until we meet up with the man there who's going to help us."

"I don't know about running off, Dieter. You're right, I don't like it here. Unfortunately, this is where my country has put me."

"Think it over. That's all you need do for the moment. And keep quiet about what I've said."

"How much trouble can I get in, if I help?"

Stark's response was not totally unexpected. He imagined the shy American would be wary of breaking any law. The truth was that the penalty for aiding in an escape from an internment camp was ten years in prison and a fine of $10,000.

He shrugged. "I have no idea how much your government will want you back. You told me that they put you here on shaky grounds."

"I need to sleep on it," Stark said, before gathering up his blanket and walking away.

During the following days he waited to see if other internees spoke to him about joining the break-out. However, no one mentioned a word to him about an escape. That must mean that Stark had kept their conversation to himself. A hopeful sign.

One day he followed Stark into the latrine. When the two stood side by side at sinks washing their hands he spoke.

"You've been keeping to yourself recently, Mark."

"Sorry."

"Does that mean you are not interested in joining up with me?"

"I can't decide."

"Anything I can say to change your mind?"

"Probably not. I'll let you know." The American dried his hands and hurried off.

He pondered if he had made a mistake by not laying down his trump card during the conversation. The secret he coveted would almost certainly catapult Stark into his arms. Once started down the path of wrongdoing, retreat would be difficult. At that point he hoped to suck the young man deeper into the espionage. By holding his water now, if the American baulked at treason and bloodshed later, then he still held a key that would surely propel Stark into cooperating.

# Chapter 21

The biplane rolled to a stop before the hangar at the Brownsville airport. Klare Fischreiher powered down the engine and climbed from the cockpit as the airplane owner, Max Moore, walked up.

"How'd the flight go?" Moore asked.

She had been applying fertilizer to a field. "Routine."

"You're done for the day, right?"

"Unless, something has come up since I lifted off."

"Nope. I'm wondering if you might do me a favor and take an airplane part into town with you. It needs to go to a welding shop right across from the army post. I won't make it in before they close."

She nodded tentatively.

"Good. I've got a friend who'll give you a ride most of the way there."

With the aircraft part in hand, Klare exited the vehicle that had brought her to town several blocks short of Fort Brown. Then she set off down the street that fronted the installation. She normally avoided this street at all cost. The uniformed soldiers made her nervous. The wall, topped with writhing wire reinforced sad memories.

Her first experience with imprisonment behind barbed wire occurred when the ship arrived at Terminal Island in San Pedro, California. At the end of their time in Costa Rica she and her mother had been held at the San Jose German country club. Although unable to leave, they were still not fenced in. But after debarking from the USS Pueblo transport ship in the United States they went into an Immigration and Naturalization Service high security compound.

There Ammon was interrogated by the FBI. At the end of a week—without having returned their papers—the authorities declared her father and his family had all entered the US illegally since he had come ashore without being in possession of appropriate documents! They would be sent to a concentration camp.

A train carried them to Texas, arriving at a facility in Crystal City. It was a marked improvement from the hellish trip all had endured. There the internees received their first medical treatment since they had been sent to the club in San Jose. They numbered forty children sick with Whooping Cough and numerous cases of Impetigo. The camp was already infected with measles.

She had been coughing for days and growing weaker. Arrival in the fresh air and sunlight of the Sonoran Desert, not far from the border with Mexico, undoubtedly pulled her back from further wasting.

Within a ten-foot tall fence, the facility was a small town, imprisoning over three thousand people. Most were US residents, with Japanese descendants in the greatest proportion; Germans and Italians made up the remainder. Latin Americans numbered several hundred. The populations did not interact, since each had their own halls, schools and stores.

Her family lived in a wooden duplex, consisting of an indoor bathroom with cold running water, a kitchen, and an oil stove. Basic food stuffs available from a camp store were adequate.

The inmates provided many of the necessary occupations—serving as barbers, butchers, and store clerks. Jobs relieved the boredom. Internees received in tokens three dollars per month spendable at the canteen for snacks, sodas, and sundries. An additional $4 per month—coming from Germany—was available to those signing a Nazi loyalty oath. The Fischreihers refused.

She could read and write German, English and Spanish. These skills earned her a position in the administrative office. It was in that capacity that she eventually learned of a circumstance that caused her to conclude they must escape the camp.

After explaining to her parents the worrisome information that she had overheard, the two of them essentially dismissed her concerns. Ammon scoffed, classifying the story as unfounded gossip. Christabel, who admired President Roosevelt's humanism, refused to listen. She could not convince them of the danger posed by remaining at the facility. Throughout the day she debated the options. Unable to be as cavalier over the future as her parents, apprehension tormented her.

That night she faced the most difficult decision of her life. She told her parents she intended to flee the camp at the first opportunity. Would they join her? They both answered negatively, although Christabel wavered. She postponed the attempt to escape for a day, hoping her mother and father might change their minds.

Over coffee on the morning she had determined to attempt a break-out her parents acted as though the conversations about flight had never occurred. Torn between further efforts at persuasion or parting in harmony, she left many sentiments unspoken. During their goodbyes her heart told her it was only temporary. Her mind wailed otherwise. As she stepped out the door the challenges of gaining freedom dimmed some of the sorrow.

Camp security had appeared passive until she began contemplating an escape. Lights and towers studded the fence. Mounted guards watched the perimeter. Border Patrol men circulated throughout the camp during both day and night. A morning roll call accounted for all detainees.

While the camp was partially self-sufficient, some products moved in and out by truck. War-related shortages dictated that the inmates save every scrap of waste paper. It was carted away weekly for recycling. A pick up was schedule for that day.

She loitered near the hospital, awaiting the arrival of the collection van. A paneled truck rolled into the hospital's circular drive, stopping beside the carton boxes containing the old paper. She pretended to count the containers. The driver set to work loading the boxes.

When only a few cartons remained on the curb she squared her shoulders and spoke. "I think I saw one more box around back that didn't make it up here. Can you please get it?" Earlier she had toted a box out back to set up the diversion.

The driver flashed her an irritated look.

"I'll put the rest of these on the truck for you," she offered, pointing to those still on the curb.

The driver stalked off to fetch the other box. She tossed the remaining cartons aboard, climbing inside with the last one. It took but a moment to re-stack the cartons in a manner that provided a space in which to lie. She wriggled within the cubby hole, drawing boxes above to conceal herself in a tomb-like cavity.

The vehicle's back door opened. The heavy box of paper the driver had gone to retrieve thudded onto the lid of her coffin. Then the door slammed shut. Soon the engine coughed to life. The truck shunted forward. Moments later she heard the driver and a gate guard exchanging pleasantries. When the vehicle moved ahead she knew they were beyond the fence.

When next they stopped the back doors opened. Her heart thrummed. Had they reached the destination where all the boxes would be unloaded and her presence discovered? She had hoped to emerge from the truck unnoticed at an intervening stop.

Suddenly a box crashed onto her tunnel from overhead. The driver was loading more waste paper at another stop—piling additional cartons above her. She thrust a forearm up to support a box drooping onto her chest. Then another container shifted, pinning her legs. She tested her ability to shrug the overhead weight off. It did not move.

Fearful and about to alert the driver to her presence as a stowaway, the rear door banged closed. More of the unstable cartons above would certainly tumble on her once the truck began careening around corners. If a jolt dislodged the box spanning the space above her head it might knock her unconscious, or worse. She called out. There was no response. The operator in the front could apparently not hear her.

The vehicle lurched forward. The boxes swayed. They rounded a turn. Cartons tumbled like a "house-of-cards" collapsing. Panic-driven adrenaline forced aside a heavy container that had slumped onto her chest allowing a space to sit up. From this position she jostled boxes back and forth freeing her legs. She clambered over the jumbled cartons and hunkered at the back door. Minutes later the truck again halted. The driver's door opened and closed. With muscles tensed she prepared to spring out as the rear door swung open.

Seconds passed without sound or movement. The door unlatched to her touch. She peeked out then climbed down. They were parked at the rear of a brick building. The driver was no where in sight. She sauntered out of the alley and into a residential street, continuing away from the van.

At a highway intersection she decided on a direction. North or east, led to more populated regions; west to Mexico. She followed the thoroughfare south.

When the first motorist passed she scurried into the foliage bordering the roadway. This routine she repeated for succeeding vehicles. Hiding off the highway so often made progress away from the camp too slow—she needed to be miles from the place by the following morning when the next roll call took place. The brush beyond the right-of-way seemed passable. She struck out through knee-high grass, paralleling the roadway.

The tinkling sound reminded her of a beggar rattling coins in a brass cup, only far faster than was humanly possible. She saw the snake just in time to leap back. It struck and missed. Heart drumming, she returned to walk the highway. Better to be back in the prison than dead from a rattlesnake's fang.

A little further along she came upon a car stopped beside the road. With the trunk open, a middle-aged woman struggled to extract a jack in order to change a flat tire. She went to the woman's aid. When the two of them had managed to fit on the spare, the lady tried to wad a bill into Klare's greasy hand.

"Molly, that isn't necessary," she said to the woman who had introduced herself as they wrestled with the tire.

"I must pay you something," Molly retorted. "You have no idea how much your help means to me. I need to cover a lot of miles. As it is, it will take me all day and most of the night, if I can keep my eyes open."

"Where is it you're headed?

"Down to the southern most tip of Texas—to Brownsville. My husband's ship is due to dock at a port near there tomorrow morning. We only have a day together before he shoves off again. I just can't stand missing a moment with him."

Declining payment had been foolish, but the good deed might earn her a ride. Brownsville seemed in the right direction and some distance away.

"What a coincidence, Molly. I'm headed that way myself."

"Really?" A quizzical look crossed Molly's face. "But you were walking."

"Just getting some exercise. When the bus comes along I'll climb on. It will be a long sit."

"I see."

Molly appeared satisfied with the answer. Fortunately, she had found a shopping bag among the waste paper in the escape truck and stuffed it with some old newspapers in case she had to sleep rough. Molly must have assumed her things were in the brown bag.

"How'd you like some help with the drive?" If she could fly an airplane why wouldn't she be able to handle a vehicle?

After a moment's consideration Molly said, "Well, why not?"

Her companion took the wheel and she hopped in the passenger side. The Fischreihers had never owned an automobile. She had driven only a handful of miles. The man who taught her to fly had occasionally provided rides into town after work, sometimes letting her behind the wheel. She watched Molly's every move as the older woman manipulated the clutch and gear shift lever mounted on the steering column.

"First place we find to wash up I'm stopping," Molly commented as she inspected her grimy hands.

That stop happened to be at a roadside diner. With hands clean each ordered a hot turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, and a dish of peach cobbler. Turkey along with mutton was not under ration. Molly left a $1.25, which she said covered both meals, plus the four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and thermos of coffee they took along to see them through the trip.

During the meal Molly asked about her accent. She had replied that her parents preferred to communicate in their native German tongue. She had only learned English when she started school. At least that was not a lie.

Back on the highway Molly asked, "So what's taking you to Brownsville?"

She reeled out the answer—conjured up once Molly had agreed to give her a lift. "Going to see my fiancé." She hoped the good Samaritan didn't want many details.

"I'll bet he's a solider boy? Am I right?"

That question put her past one hurdle. She knew nothing about the town or what her mythical "fiancé" might be doing in Brownsville. She nodded and grinned large.

"Oh, I just knew it," Molly gushed. "And I'm also betting you are getting married during the visit, right?"

She mumbled, "That's what he has promised. He's never let me down before."

"I could see right off something was up, because you've been so jumpy. 'Wedding nerves,' you know. Every bride gets them as the big day nears."

She had, apparently, not been as collected as thought.

"But, dearie, where's your wedding dress? Can't be in that little bag you're carrying?"

That morning she had donned a fresh white cotton blouse and brown slacks, dressing for travel but hoping to be presentable for whatever occasion might arise. She had worn a cardigan sweater and windbreaker as well. The last two items now topped the old newspapers in the shopping bag

"He says he's got some money saved for us. We'll buy a dress there."

"I hope he's a good man."

"The best. We've known each other for years."

Molly was, as it turned out, a romantic. The conversation set the woman to reminiscing about her own wedding and honeymoon. She listened, relieved not to have to carry the burden of fabricating an involved lie. Before long Molly's curiosity returned.

"Klare, I don't want to be nosey, but . . . what are you doing out on a trip like this with all your things in that old paper bag? I'm sure you must be in trouble. Why don't you tell me about it?"

"I left home kinda sudden, that's all."

"Whose the meanie there—daddy?"

She nodded silently confirming the ready-made answer. Molly evidently thought she had fled an abusive father.

"You sure you got a soldier waiting for you, honey?"

"Of course." She better put some meat on the bones of this imaginary husband-to-be. "He's a blond with blue eyes. His hair is a little curly. We're both from farm families. When the war ends we hope to get a little place and raise our own kids on it."

"I guess you scooted out in a hurry—just took what would fit in that bag of yours?"

"Yes." That was at least a somewhat truthful answer. "My father is opposed, what with the war on and everything. He didn't want me to go. But we're in love and I don't care if there is a war."

Periodically questioning the talkative Molly about her life meant she did not have to say much concerning herself for long periods of time.

Molly pulled into a gasoline station during the late afternoon. She shut down the engine saying, "I've got a brother who's a preacher. He gets lots of coupons because of that. He also told me his congregation trades any extras back and forth amongst themselves as needed. He gave me some when he found out I was making this long drive. He knew I hadn't seen my husband in close to nine months now."

The day eventually mellowed into dusk. Molly began to yawn, shifting restlessly behind the wheel. By then they were south of Laredo and in desolate country. Molly asked Klare to relieve her, pulling off onto the shoulder and walking around the car. She scooted across the seat. Her knuckles tinted white from their death-grip on the wheel.

She muffed coordinating the gas and clutch pedals on her first try, stalling the engine. "Haven't done this in some time," she explained.

"I think you had it in third." Molly reached over and moved the gear shift handle into first.

On the next try, with ample power, they fishtailed out of the sandy soil and onto the pavement. She drove in the low gear for several seconds while mustering courage to shift into second.

"Just move it up and away, then up again," Molly coached.

The instructions worked! Hitting third gear—straight down—was easy.

"Thanks for the help. Our farm truck's shifter is on the floor," she extemporized.

Once up to speed the stress diminished—just point the wheels down the lonely highway. Shortly afterward Molly drowsed off. Much of the night Klare drove in silence. With Molly back at the wheel, the two rolled into Brownsville the following morning.

When the vehicle pulled to the curb she slid out. "You have been so kind. I can't thank you enough."

With the engine idling, Molly exited the car and came near. "It is I who should do the thanking. We made it on schedule. I'll have this precious time with my hubby. He's a seaman. Dangerous occupation, don't you know."

They embraced, having shared an adventure neither was likely to soon forget.

"This is for you and your beau." Molly dropped a clutch of bills into her shopping bag as they broke apart.

"I shouldn't take this."

"Please, take it for me. I'm so excited for you. Last night . . . dozing, dreaming . . . so many memories flooded back. I married during hard times. No one had any money. Things are different for us now. Fred is a Merchant Marine officer—gets pretty good pay. We had love, but a little dough would have made everything magical."

"Thank you, Molly. You'll never know how much this means to me." She felt chagrined at accepting the money under the circumstances. On the other hand, she was thrilled to have funds which would allow her to get off the street until she could determine the lay of the land and get a foothold.

Molly climbed back in the car. She stood uneasily on the sidewalk before the gates to Fort Brown.

"Best wishes, girl," Molly offered as she ducked down and waved out the passenger window.

She waited until Molly was out of sight before hurrying away from the sentries that staffed the entrance gate.

Now making her way along the street fronting the fort toward the machine shop with Mr. Moore's airplane part under her arm, she snuck a glance at the soldiers guarding the entrance to the post. The uniforms, the wire fencing, the weapons all gave her the willies, just as they had that morning after the all night drive with Molly.

Although they had spent less than a day together, Molly had become a friend. When she drove out of sight so had any further companionship. Since that moment she had kept others at a distance, had insulated herself emotionally from everyone.

Inside the repair shop she delivered Moore's package, then headed towards her room. After saying good bye to Molly at the end of their all night drive, she had made this same walk. She had wandered the commercial streets of Brownsville, ultimately renting a room in a hotel above a dry goods store in the late afternoon.

That had been a Friday. She needed to learn about the community, determining where she might fit in. But caution caused her to remain out of sight except for meals taken at the White Kitchen diner just across the street. Each afternoon she purchased a newspaper and read every article and advertisement, even the tiny classifieds to learn about the town. The local airport was mentioned several times.

Monday morning found her at the Brownsville airfield. People in a variety of military uniforms bustled here and there, ignoring her. Nevertheless, she remained cautious.

Work inquiries eventually led to Mr. Moore. He needed a pilot to replace those who had gone to war. Skeptical about her employability as a flyer, they went aloft where she demonstrated her skills. They struck a deal.

Since then she had decided that this backwater of the world, three hundred miles from the internment camp, offered a degree of safety. The border region was awash with foreigners. Known as "Braceros," the US welcomed these Mexican workers along with their families in order to fill the slots of those away soldiering. Spanish speaking non-Americans were common.

Deep in Texas she was also far from the concentrations of Germanic peoples in the northern cities. Mexico lay only a few short blocks from her lodgings—a comforting escape route, she had convinced herself, if the authorities came knocking.

Maintaining a low profile seemed essential for survival. To that end she tried to remain inconspicuous, visiting the airport when work was available, flying the assignment, and then returning to a solitary existence in her room. She had tried to sit through the movie "Jane Eyre," but had left the theater in tears—seeing too many resemblances to the heart-rending welt her own desolate life had become.

At times, to relieve the wretchedness, she fantasized about having a friend. Her favorite musing involved a companionable young man.

# Chapter 22

The coffin joggled on the bed of the truck just ahead. Another wave of misgiving roiled Mark as the funeral cortège reached the compound's fence. Up to this point he had done nothing wrong. Was it too late to drop out?

He had finally agreed to join Dangler only after considerable soul searching. Confusion over where his allegiances lay continued even now. Throughout his life family had come first. Until recently personal aims and his country's aims had never conflicted. Now everything seemed topsy-turvy. Did he owe homage to his family or his nation?

The Ford Market Truck rolled beyond the gate and forded the Rio Bonito. He followed. It was really a creek—not much more than they had on the ranch. After climbing the south bank, the procession threaded its way through the old cavalry outpost.

Soon the road tilted up, climbing the slope of a hill. Ahead the cemetery occupied the high ground. Within a hundred steps his lungs scabbed for the thin air found at nearly 7,000 feet above sea level. The breathlessness resulted from too much lazing around the stables. Working there provided his only opportunity to escape from the company of the 'undesirables" in the detainment camp. He would not regret leaving most of his fellow inmates behind.

Had Dangler taken into account the difficulty Thael would have carrying out his diversion at this altitude? Willi bragged about having been a high school track star before his infatuation with the American Nazis took control of his life. None of them had seen him run. The bony frame seemed to indicate he was capable of leading a spirited chase.

The mourners entered the burial grounds. Ranks of white crosses stood at attention above the remains of Merchant Marine seamen who had succumbed to tuberculosis. Pallbearers wrestled the wooden coffin from the Ford's bed, settling it on sawhorses near the grave.

None of the four of them in Dangler's group had known the dead internee—a sailor named Mittmann. But the deceased was now at the center of their plan. A death had been the event Dangler had waited for, and he had quickly devised the scheme allowing flight.

A two-man honor guard, armed with rifles for the farewell salute, assumed positions along the coffin's length. By their lack of uniforms he identified them as civilians. Dangler had said no honor guard would be preferable, but if one showed up then they definitely wanted civilians, rather than Border Patrol officers.

Behind the riflemen the mourners began assembling. He and Dangler quickly crowded into the front row near the coffin. They had run through numerous rehearsals in the deserted shower room late last night to insure they took up the correct positions at the last rites today.

With a pant and a wheeze the ponderous Peter Oster, winded and straggling from the up hill trudge to the graveyard, nestled in beside him. Stark glanced over his shoulder at the delegation of crewmen from the German luxury liner who swelled their ranks. Their presence might add to the confusion and be helpful. Beyond the seamen, at the far end of the last row, with his back to the gathering, Thael studied an escape route through the scrubby Juniper trees.

At the head of the grave a chaplain thumbed through a Bible; at the foot a bugler toyed with the key taps. Scattered along the fringe of the mourners were a few US Border Patrol officers.

He noted Inspector Harvey Black among them. Black's bony face and dark complexion was shadowed beneath the "lemon-squeezer" campaign hat. It obscured the man's intense, black irises. A brace of holstered pistols hung off the Sam Browne belt that cinched his spare trunk tightly. He wondered if Black would be able to pace Thael, considering his high-heeled, pointy-toed cowboy boots.

A trumpet mourned the first bars of "Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag." Dangler braced to attention. During the 1914 to 1919 war the tune had been a favorite of the army on the Kaiser's side of "no man's land," as well as on the Allies side, he had learned. Several fists fired heavenward hailing Hitler.

The music ceased. The minister droned scripture, then prayed. The preaching ended. Instrument raised, the trumpeter licked his lips preparing to play again. The riflemen shouldered their pieces.

His eyes shifted left, confirming that Oster, like himself, stood with one foot back—cocked for action.

The honor guard's volley shattered the afternoon.

Dangler lurched forward, collapsing full length among the gunners. All eyes shifted to the stricken man. Several Border Patrol officers started towards Dangler. Thael broke from the group, sprinting out the gate and starting up the hillside.

The guards, now entangled within the mourners, missed the runner's move. No one alerted them to his flight. It was only after the officers reached Dangler that someone called the first alarm. They lost interest in Dangler, their eyes scanning the surrounding terrain. He and Oster pointed towards the north. Thael fled west. Two officers on the fringe of the group ran off heading north.

Arms spread wide, he and Oster plowed into the riflemen, driving them against the casket. It toppled into the grave. The honor guard and their weapons followed. Pandemonium erupted.

Dangler, his act over, rolled into the pit after the men, then snatched a weapon and tossed it skyward. He caught the rifle. Oster snagged a second weapon as it flew out of the grave. Mark offered Dangler a hand up.

As Dangler had predicted in the confusion all the officers had rushed off in a variety of directions. They now had the honor-guard's weapons, but it was apparent they wouldn't need them for the moment.

Along with Dangler and Oster, he hustled off, heading east among the scrub brush. Fortunately they were moving down slope.

Harvey Black stood amongst the Nazi mourners. With the funeral service being conducted in German the Border Patrol guard's mind wandered. Even if he had understood the language, his position some distance from the grave would have prevented him from following the service. Too many years of practicing with his side arms had destroyed much of his hearing.

A commotion near the grave drew his attention. He shouldered into the throng. About the time he made it to a downed prisoner he noticed several of the men were excitedly pointing and jabbering in German. He immediately suspected one of the internees had decided to flee. Several of his fellow officers started towards the north—the direction the Germans had pointed. By the time he muscled free of the Nazis, who seemed to have boxed him in, he spied a figure rushing off towards the west. The runner vanished behind a tree.

He had scanned the shrubby slope for several seconds before a flash of white racing up a hillside again caught his eye. Breaking into a sprint, he attempted to keep the escapee in sight. Expansive cedars soon swallowed Black, restricting his field of vision. He could see only a few yards in any direction. He slowed to a trot, years of cigarettes now quickly winding him. After wandering amongst the Junipers for some time he gave up. This was a job for a man on horseback.

Along with Stark and Oster, Dangler raced away from the mourners, reaching the Rio Bonito some distance from the cemetery. Stepping into the shallow creek, which might cover any scent, they trekked through the ankle-deep water for close to a kilometer. Along the banks Dangler searched for a rock cairn marking the point at which to leave the stream bed.

When the marker came into view they exited the creek and tracked across an up sloping meadow paralleling a ravine. Eventually this draw built into a small canyon. They climbed the bank on the western side and spread out, searching for the entrance to the cavern where they intended to hide. Stark, who covered twice the amount of area as either he or Oster, spied the sinkhole cradling the entrance to the Fort Stanton Cave and signaled. They scrambled over boulders, making their way down a steep-sided rift.

A few steps inside the entrance the light dimmed. They halted long enough to ignite the alcohol torches—fabricated with materials stolen from the infirmary—and crabbed into the darkness. The passageways were riddled with nooks and crannies bathed in mud, apparently from occasional flooding by rainwater that surged into the vertical cleft through which they had entered. There were reportedly rooms paved with white crystal.

After moving deep enough into the cave system to hopefully dissuade ill-prepared searchers from following, he located a coffin-sized niche. Once within the alcove he piled up small stones to conceal his presence. The other three were taking similar precautions. Now they must wait.

He wriggled around in his tomb until finding a comfortable position then settled down, reflecting on the enemy's carelessness, or naivety. Those who briefed spies back in Berlin would never believe how simple it had been to discover this hiding place.

A tourist pamphlet found in the camp library had mentioned the cavern. It had undoubtedly been placed there for the benefit of patients of the tuberculosis hospital, who had been encouraged to exercise in the mountain air. The information had remained available following the transfer from San Francisco of the North German Lloyd Line seamen. A steward off the SS Columbus, who happened to be an avid Nazi, had visited the cave. He had provided Oster a sketch map of the area.

Once the Border Patrol realized several men had escaped and scattered, he expected the cave would be among the places searched. The system of tunnels was reportedly over three miles long, maybe much longer. They planned to be gone by the time the guards rounded up men and equipment to mount a thorough effort.

# Chapter 23

Hours after the futile pursuit of an escapee from the funeral, Black sat in a meeting with other Border Patrol guards and the Chief Inspector, who oversaw the camp. A total of four internees had fled that afternoon, including Mark Stark. Why would Stark, who was here voluntarily, run away, he pondered?

The discussion had turned to where the following day's search should concentrate. Some of the prisoners, several officers insisted, were seen heading in the general direction of the road leading north to civilization. Patrolmen had already searched that sector without success. The superintendent, nevertheless, confidently predicted that this escape would end like the other attempts with the wayward men being rounded up by sundown the following evening.

About to point out that he had followed one of the men south and west, he hesitated. Instead he asked, "What about this kid named Stark? Why did he go with them?"

"What do you mean?" the Chief Inspector responded.

"He wasn't really a prisoner, at least that's what he said."

The Chief Inspector snorted. "You believed him, Black?"

"I . . . I guess. Was he lying about that?"

"Like a dog," answered the Chief Inspector. He's a turncoat American. The authorities needed to keep an eye on him that's why they put him here. He's like the rest of them."

Son of a bitch! He swore silently.

At one point he had question the stable hand about why he lived with the inmates. Stark had said that was part of the program. He was there to keep an eye on what went on in the barracks after hours.

Duped by Stark, he fumed. Some weeks earlier, during a discussion of an upcoming hunting adventure, Stark had evidently been picking his brain about an escape route. The kid's American background had been part of the reason he had bought the lie about his status as a worker. He would have been far more guarded had he known the truth, would not have entered into that type of conversation at all.

By the time the guards had gathered the following morning to continue the search, he had decided to remain silent on his hunch that the group was moving southwest—planning to hike an old Indian trail out of the area, the one he had visited with Stark about.

An explanation would be required if he argued that the quarry was heading into primeval forest, rather than along passable highways. That would lead to an admission that he had inadvertently leaked the trail escape route details to Stark. Not only an embarrassment, the negligence would mar his record.

Knowing the gang's route was a huge advantage, one that gave him confidence he could track and retake the four men alone. He had accumulated several weeks of leave and the boss had been after him to take some of it. He would use his vacation time to hunt down Stark and his pals.

With the quarry bagged it would be possible to level with his superiors about his activities. He could explain his actions as merely following a hunch. The fact he rode off on his own would be attributable to his typical grandstanding. Regardless, everything would end well as long as the four were apprehended. He would bring the kid back—one way, or the other.

# Chapter 24

Chirping.

Fluttering.

The moment of truth had arrived. Dangler stirred. He and his compatriots had taken a leap of faith when they ventured into the cave's labyrinthine tunnels, believing a method of finding their way back to daylight existed. Leaving visible markers to backtrack along a route to the entrance would have provided the Border Patrol with a road map to their dens. Escape from the maze of tunnels now depended on a mammal with a God-given gift of navigating the cavern's dark recesses.

He pawed the stones away from his niche and climbed back into a passageway. In blinding darkness, he dipped the cotton-swathed tongue depressor into the vial he carried. A flared match ignited the spirits on the miniature torch. Overhead streaming bats winged through the passageway. He followed their sinuous route, while continuously defending his head from the strafing creatures.

Upon reaching the cave's exit he peered out cautiously, fretting about the tenacity of the guards. Until the funeral the four of them had been detained by blurry administrative process. Had their status now changed? Was a Border Patrolman waiting nearby, itching to shoot a fugitive?

Someone moved just steps outside the cave. He was about to slink back inside before determining it was Oster profiled against the waning daylight.

"Seen Mark?" he called.

"Nien."

"Peter, we speak English when we know the words from now on." Everyday his vocabulary improved.

Oster continued in English. "Only a few bats still coming out."

"I hope he didn't fall asleep and miss the migration."

"Or become lost inside." Oster observed as he planted a beefy haunch on a grassy hump.

"We'll wait." He stretched muscles cramped from the time in the cave. "So, what will happen if the Border Patrol chase us down, now that we've caused all that trouble up at the cemetery?"

"Oh, we'd get some sort of discipline. Confinement in a cell with bread and water, possibly for a month. That's what I've heard they do."

"That's all?" Very different from the torture he had been contemplating based upon his knowledge of what awaited fugitives in the Fatherland. Of course, if the four of them were caught and the authorities figured out what they were up to, it would be a firing squad.

"Might not even be that bad," Oster said. "There are lots of Americans who believe that locking up normal people is wrong."

"The good thing is," he thought aloud, "I don't think anyone got seriously hurt back at the cemetery—maybe a few broken bones when the honor guard went into the grave is all."

"I'm just glad that no one got shot."

He jerked around in surprise at hearing Stark speak. He and Oster had turned their backs to the entry.

"Let's ditch these rifles, so we don't shoot someone accidentally." Stark said.

"It's too soon for that. We've got miles of wilderness to cover," he pointed out. "Let's go see if we can find Thael."

They headed off trusting alpine glow from the western peaks as a compass to try to find the young American Nazi who had provided a diversion by racing away in the opposite direction during the escape.

Their trek brought them to a narrow mesa and eventually an unpaved road connecting Ft. Stanton to the town of Ruidoso. The plan called for Thael to arrange sticks along the side of the track forming the letter "H" to mark their meeting place. The idea was to make the symbol noticeable if you were looking for it, but not so conspicuous as to raise the consciousness of trackers. Stark searched ahead on the road. He set out in the other direction. They agreed to return to where Oster waited for them in thirty minutes.

He came upon the crossed limbs within a kilometer. Seconds later Thael emerged from the brush.

"You look a mess, even in this moonlight," Thael said eyeing Dangler's clothing, which was filthy from the muddy cave. "I think running was the better end of that deal."

"Let's start back and join up with Mark and Peter."

"That's the direction we ought to be going. I scouted ahead and spotted a trail that way."

"Any trouble with the guards?" he asked.

"It was a 'cake walk.' They never got close."

"They bring out the dogs?"

"A few hours ago I heard barking. But it was always in the distance."

"I guess that advice we got from the old hands was good."

There had been some prior escape attempts—always unsuccessful. Once beyond the wire the fugitives typically headed north back along the roads they had followed when they arrived. Because it was so obvious and less strenuous, he had ruled they must make a tougher overland hike in the opposite direction.

They picked up Oster and continued along the road. Eventually Thael told them to halt. They had reached a point where a southerly meandering gully gouged the narrow mesa. Soon Stark joined them.

"Mark, how old do you think that cow dung is?" he asked

Stark studied the droppings a moment. "Not that old. I'd say from the amount of it this path leads to a water hole or possibly a feed station."

"It's going in the right direction—south. We'll try it," he concluded.

They started down the gulch.

In addition to the sketch depicting the location of the Fort Stanton Cave they had hidden within, he'd had the benefit of studying road maps of the area available in the camp library. At some point he had consulted with Stark about the best route out of the area. That was when Stark mentioned that he had learned from one of the guards that a trail led many miles through a vast forest. If they could make their way cross-country to a highway to the south, then they would be able to locate the trail which branched off from it.

Before long the gorge they followed emptied into a pasture. In the star shine he spied a water tank perched on stilts. A valve fed a livestock trough. Before the funeral they had filled their bellies with food and water. Now they craved both. He tested the water from the spigot with a cupped hand, finding it potable. The liquid, unfortunately, only served to heighten a hunger that was beginning to haunt them.

# Chapter 25

In sodden clothing, damp from a hasty cleaning in the cattle trough, Dangler and his cadre trudged on through the night.

Neither cabins, nor other signs of human existence appeared along the pathway. As the sky began to color, they emerged onto an open plane. Ahead a highway snaked through what looked to be a fertile river valley. This was undoubtedly the road they sought. They turned west, paralleling the roadway at a distance. When a clutch of buildings came into view, he sent Thael over to read the signage.

"It's a dude ranch called Lone Pine," Thael told them when he trotted back.

"Good, we're on the right road." Dangler remembered that landmark from the maps he had studied.

"Without food I can't go on," Oster whined.

"I bet I could beg a meal at that dude ranch," Stark volunteered.

"Better we slip on by." Although Mark with his winsome ways probably could snare a plate of food, he wanted to avoid contact with anyone who might have heard of their escape. "Tough it out. Won't be long before we eat."

Around the next bend they came upon a tumbledown adobe shack. The words "fresh fruits and vegetables" were scrawled across the front in white paint.

"This little stand makes me think they might be growing apples along the river," Stark said. "Something may be in season. Why don't you two 'old timers' rest? Me and Willi can hike down to the river and see what we turn up."

"Stay out of sight," he warned.

Oster flopped onto his back in the grass, expressing his agreement with sending the fitter men in search of produce.

Over an hour later the two Americans returned. They had removed their jackets, fashioning them into pouches from which they withdrew pears and apples. The fruit disappointed in terms of taste and appearance. It did served to quench both thirst and hunger.

A few kilometers on they began to see a scattering of dwellings. At a road sign Stark billed his eyes with his hand, staring into the western sun. "'Ruidoso, New Mexico,' it says."

He chose a lonely house well off the highway served by several out buildings. They circled around, piling into the remotest of sheds. Soon all were dozing.

Night had fallen by the time he awoke to a grumbling stomach. The others were stirring as well. "We've got to have real food—can't live on fruit any longer."

"That's for certain," Oster said.

"Anyone seen any activity around the house?" He got on his feet.

No one had.

"I'm going to go have a look around. See what they've got."

"Want some company, meister?" Thael addressed him employing a respectful term for the English word "boss."

"Let me go. It'll be easier to jump somebody if I'm alone." He had observed Thael on enough occasions to know the young man was erratic, possessing a temper that could explode without warning.

"Dieter," Stark placed a hand on his arm, "no violence, please."

Thael cackled before parroting Stark's naive remark.

"Shut up," Stark said to Thael. "You sure don't know much about America for living here all of your life."

"We've got to have food to continue on," he ignored the bickering. "And I'd feel better if we had some cash. That reminds me, every one get rid of your coins now."

In the camp red and green tokens were used as money at the commissary.

"Willi, you bury them."

Everyone began passing Thael their coinage.

"Now about food—you got a better idea, Mark?" He asked

"How about I go," Stark volunteered, "I can pretend I'm a soldier 'thumbing' my way home on leave."

"It's way late. They don't let children out at this hour," Thael mocked.

If it were daytime Dangler might just let the blond-haired, blue-eyed kid have a try. The baby face mirrored an equally gentle heart.

"Let me handle this one," he said easing out of the hut.

He circled the white frame house at a distance. A roadster was parked beside a shed. From within the structure no light shone. He started testing windows, finding one that slid up easily. An inky interior revealed nothing. After squeezing through the sash, he kneed into a bed, rattling its metal frame. He poked a leg back out the window, ready to flee if anyone roused. Silence reigned.

Back inside and laying a new course, his outstretched hands connected with a highboy after a few steps. He felt a box of matches on its surface and struck one. From somewhere in the house a toilet flushed. He had wriggled back out the window before recalling the neatly made bed. Whoever used the bathroom apparently slept elsewhere.

While listening to his heart thump, he waited for the occupant to fall back asleep. His reaction to the threat confirmed again what he had known for years. He was not cut from the cloth of undercover agents.

Minutes ticked off. He eventually reentered the house, negotiated the bedroom, and felt along a hall. While passing a door, a toilet flushed from within. He steeled to surprise the user but no one emerged. Then it dawned on him that he should leap into the bathroom, catching the occupant at a vulnerable moment.

After igniting another match, he slammed back the door only to discover the room empty. He stood in the dark waiting for the commotion he had caused to rouse someone. The only sound was water trickling into the toilet. Suddenly it emptied yet again and he finally comprehended what had been taking place. A leaking connection filled the tank, somehow triggering the periodic flushing.

Since no one had come to investigate the clatter, he concluded the dwelling must be empty. By the light of another match he found the kitchen. Above a table hung a naked bulb. With electricity lighting the way, it took only minutes to explore the other rooms.

The house was vacant for the moment. The pantry held three tins of crackers. He scooped up one of the containers, intending on snacking, and popped its top. A wad of bills tumbled out. He must have lucked upon the equivalent of the German farm wife's "egg money" hiding place.

Back in the shed he told his comrades. "I've hit, how do you call it, a 'jackpot?'"

"Any trouble?" Stark asked anxiously.

The vigorous young American certainly seemed worried about roughhousing. Stark ought to be capable of handling himself in a brawl. Was it a sign he was not yet committed to the mission?

"No, the place was empty," he replied.

"They have any food around, I'm starved," Oster grumbled.

He tossed him one of the tins.

Through meaty jowls stuffed with crackers Oster mumbled, "These are awful."

"I gotta' have more to eat than saltines," Thael said.

Dangler had to agree. They could cover miles during the overnight hours, maybe be clear of the main highway by dawn if they kept moving. That required nourishment. "Let's get going."

"I'll bet they got stores in this town. People here have to eat," Oster said, as he struggled to his feet and started for the door.

Back on the highway, they eventually came upon a darkened market.

Thael walked over and looked in the large front window. "I'll handle this." Thael hefted a large rock.

"No, don't break that window," Stark said.

Thael smirked then cocked his throwing arm at the window.

"Stop, Mark's right, Willi," he rushed forward. "Better to sneak in and leave no evidence of us being here, if possible."

After hesitating Thael dropped the stone. "As I said before, 'I'll handle this.'"

"Just remember what I told you about not leaving behind any evidence we were here," he cautioned.

Thael disappeared around the building. A few minutes later the front door swung open. With a soda bottle in his fist, the lanky American waved them forward.

"How'd you manage to get in?" he asked.

"Jimmied the lock with this." Thael held up a long, rusty nail he had apparently picked up somewhere along the way.

They filed inside. The shelves, though deeply stocked, offered scant product variety.

"Grab only what you can carry and consume in the next day and don't make a mess," he advised while popping the paperboard cap on a milk bottle. After glutting from it he said, "Where we're going there won't be easy pickings."

That reminded him that German housewives stood in daylong lines for fractions of the foodstuffs displayed here. In this small western town it appeared that citizens could stroll in and fill their needs from the shelves at will.

He grabbed a loaf of bread and pealed the end wrapper open. The whole loaf came free when he pulled. "I thought Americans liked sliced bread?"

"The government stopped the bakeries from cutting it up when the war started." Oster belched after downing a swig from a Royal Crown Cola.

"What?" He tore a hunk from the loaf and passed it to Oster.

"Don't know why—that's America for you," Oster said before cramming his mouth with bread.

After several minutes of them knocking the edge off their hunger he spoke. "Time to move out. Everyone grab a milk bottle—they'll hold water."

"Dieter, we've eaten a lot here," Stark said. "Don't you think we ought to leave some of that money you stole behind for the owner?"

"No, we don't want anybody realizing a group of people were here." Stark's comment reinforced what he had come to accept. Mark was a naive Pollyanna, who probably could not be counted on in a pinch. He'd have to rely on Thael.

"Let's pick up the place," he said while gathering up a crumpled candy wrapper. "Fill in the spaces on these shelves where we've taken items. Move things from the back and stack them up in front."

Once on the highway they resumed the westward trek. Their route would carry them into the Mescalero Apache Reservation. The first task was to find the trailhead.

After locating the Indian footpath they would traverse high mountain pastures and dense forests. Stark had gained some knowledge of the trail from a guard employed at Fort Stanton. The fellow, during an innocent conversation about hunting, had outlined for Mark a route that would lead to the mountain village of Cloudcroft.

It was providential that at the time Stark was chatting with Black about the footpath the kid did not know of the escape plan. Otherwise a skittish Stark would likely have somehow inadvertently alerted the Border Patrol guard as to his misstep in volunteering such sensitive information.

As with the case of the helpful materials in the camp library relating to both the Fort Stanton Cave and the road maps, the guard's willingness to impart potential escape knowledge was astounding. The circumstances were undoubtedly confusing considering the assortment of patients, German merchant seamen, and American aliens occupying Fort Stanton. Additionally, the battlegrounds were half a world away from this pastoral region in the middle of America.

Since leaving the store in Ruidoso the road had climbed nearly continuously. Now the rate of ascent increased. With virtually no traffic during the overnight hours they stuck to the highway, making better time then when they had slogged through brush during the day. Oster's stamina was a relief. Once nourished, the husky man, although laboring, maintained the pace.

About dawn the first vehicles chased them from the pavement and into hiding alongside the road. Halting gaits telegraphed their exhaustion. He decided to push on until someone dropped. Shortly thereafter, at a parking turn out, a crude wooden sign pointed along a path leading into the pines. It read: Cloudcroft 15 miles. He made them walk a few hundred meters into the forest, before leaving the trail and bedding down for the day.

Everyone was footsore, having hiked a distance of approximately 50 kilometers since leaving the cave. He had prepared them for the journey by insuring each had layered on extra clothing and stashed spare socks on their person before attending the committal service. They had donned their sturdiest shoes and each carried a small packet of bandages drawn from the camp infirmary in expectation of treating blisters. Nevertheless, they needed rest.

# Chapter 26

The aging pickup truck labored up the mountain highway west of Ruidoso, New Mexico.

The cowboy behind the wheel was an authentic relic of the Old West—from his Stetson hat, to his silver belt buckle, to his checkered flannel shirt. During the moments when he wasn't shifting gears his right hand held a harmonica to his lips and lyrical tunes issued forth.

Elbow looped out the window, Harvey Black rode in the passenger seat, silently urging the vehicle faster. Stark and the other internees had been on the run for over 40 hours. They had fled during the funeral, which took place in the afternoon two days ago. If they had remained on foot the entire time he was not that far behind. If they had commandeered a vehicle he might have a difficult time catching up to them.

Yesterday, the morning after the escape, he had effected a limp when attending the Chief Inspector's briefing at the internment camp. The meeting was being held prior to the guards resuming their hunt for the wanted men. Some officers were now equipped to search the Fort Stanton cave. Others would fan out to scour the open ground to the north.

When the group broke apart, he had lingered behind. He told his boss that he had apparently injured his ankle while chasing one of the internees the previous afternoon. This was a lie to enhance his chance of a temporary leave.

Overnight the joint had grown tender, he claimed. The lameness prohibited him from further participation in the search. He trusted his reputation as an enthusiastic tracker would erase any doubt of malingering. With that fib told he asked for a leave of absence to heal. He volunteered to use some of his accumulated personal time.

The officer-in-charge was reluctant to grant the request, pointing out that Black could be useful around the facility guarding its perimeter. Black said he would attempt to mount his horse. He hobbled to the stable then back to the office, fibbing how he had been unable to climb into the saddle. They discussed his doing walking duty. Black said he'd not be able to go far, pointing out that the quickest way to heal was probably to stay off the ankle. In the end leave was granted.

Mid-afternoon yesterday, after checking out of the camp, he began searching the country between Ft. Stanton and the small mountain village of Ruidoso. The effort produced a hint he might be on the escapee's trail. Around a watering trough he discovered a collection of prints in the mud left by at least three different pairs of shoes.

After arriving in the settlement of Ruidoso about dusk, he located a small tourist court and rested for the night. This morning he had questioned a number of citizens and merchants, attempting to determine if anyone had observed a strange group of men in town. No one had seen or heard anything to indicate that those fleeing had passed through the village.

There were, however, a number of other routes the internees might have taken to reach the Apache trailhead. Not in the least dissuaded that his theory concerning their escape route was in error, he now figured to overtake them along the footpath, or await their arrival at its terminus in the community of Cloudcroft. The trail was somewhat ambiguous, so who knew how many wrong turns these greenhorns might make?

The internees had grabbed the honor guard's rifles but they were loaded with useless blanks. He packed two pistols and a rifle—more than enough to overpower four civilians. After rounding up sufficient provisions to see him to Cloudcroft, he started stumping for a lift to the trailhead.

Leaving his relatively new 1940 Studebaker Champion parked alongside the road for several days would be foolish. Once he had apprehended the prey, the government would transport him as necessary. Depending on how the capture turned out, he would fabricate a story about accidentally picking up the fugitives' trail as he headed out on leave. He doubted the chief-inspector-in-charge would mar a successful recovery of the prisoners by dwelling upon a miraculously healed ankle.

The cowboy let him out at the trailhead. He snooped around the area for any sign of a group recently passing through, but could determine nothing. Pack slung on a shoulder, he headed into the woods.

# Chapter 27

Waking from a half-sleep, Mark sat upright. The growl alerted him to a mountain lion nearby. The big cat snarled again, stirring the other three men to life. They had started down the trail at dawn but soon stopped to rest, traipsing into the trees far enough to be hidden from anyone using the pathway. The sun now high above the pines indicated they had slept to midday.

Dangler, propped up on an elbow, glanced at him for guidance. Of the four escapees from the internment camp, Mark was likely the only one who had seen or even heard a panther in the wild. With a finger at his lips, he signaled silence. The cougar's aggressiveness seemed to indicate there were young kittens nearby; otherwise the mountain lion would have silently vanished into the forest. He tugged on his boots. Taking a cue from him, the others donned their shoes.

They silently returned to the track. Within a few paces Stark happened upon a scene reminiscent of a newspaper cartoon. The cat had trapped a man in a compromising position and without a weapon.

If the situation were not so serious he would have burst into laughter. Now he looked more carefully discovering the man to be a Border Patrol officer. The hapless fellow had apparently laid his weapons aside to drop his trousers. He now sat on a log answering nature's call. The mountain lion had caught him in the act. Panther and man were in a stand off, the guns out of reach beyond the animal.

They were approaching the officer from behind. He whispered instructions to the others. Then they went into action.

Dangler, Thael, and Oster rushed forward, seizing the patrolman. When the flustered man grasped what was happening he raised one hand in surrender covering his genitals with the other. The approach of so many humans spooked the cougar. The animal disappeared into the forest. While this was taking place he retrieved the officer's weapons.

At that point he noticed their catch was Officer Black. He guessed the Border Patrol man had realized his mistake—divulging the existence of the old Apache trail—and followed them. He felt sorry for Black. No, what he really wished was that Black had not chosen to hunt them. Regardless of those feelings, he knew they must detain their pursuer.

He watched as Dangler and Thael stripped Black down to his underwear, ripping his tunic and jodhpurs into long strips. Between two trees they stretched his arms wide, stringing up him there with multiple lashings of knotted clothing.

The guard had to be slowed down, but he did not want blood on his hands if a predator wandered by and attempted to devour Black. Once Dangler and Thael were finished he stepped close and inspected the knots.

After discovering Dangler's efforts to be ineffective, he reworked the bindings. Thael had savagely tightened his knots to the point Black's hands were purple and swelling due to lack of circulation. That would create all sorts of unknown health problems. He loosened Thael's knotting. When finished, he believed the lawman was in a position from which he could extricate himself before nightfall—when the man eaters came alive. By then they would be long gone.

Not a word was passed between he and the guard while adjusting the bindings. By the end of the task he felt edgy, believing Black would strangle him with bare hands if free.

They took Black's provisions, boots and weapons with them. Along the way they tossed most of the ammunition into the dense forest. Several hours down the trail he discarded the boots and a pistol. He kept the second handgun and rifle in the event they crossed paths with a black bear. He was not particularly worried since they numbered four grown men, but after encountering the wild cat the others had insisted on remaining armed.

Miles later they topped a ridge line, gazing down at a huge swath of scarred terrain. The tract was not a pasture, but a stretch of forest cut clear of standing timber. They picked a path through the carnage of scattered, splintered trees and around craters left by the roots of fallen trees.

The far side of the jumble dropped away into a ravine. Logs on the slope lay like gigantic toothpicks spilled from a container. Below a pair of rails snaked through the gorge's bottom. Steam driven machinery designed for handling the pine trunks nestled alongside the tracks.

Everyone rallied. He had guided them unerringly as they had traversed miles of wilderness along a wooly trail. At a hundred points a wrong fork would sentence them to endless floundering amongst the dense pines. Weakened, they might succumb to relatives of the puma they had seen, or to one of the abundant black bears calling the forest home.

Now they need only walk the logging railroad to civilization.

# Chapter 28

Cloudcroft's main street stretched two blocks. It must have been two hundred feet wide. The rough hewn buildings reminded Stark of scenes from the western matinees he had watched as a child. The wooden structures boasted false fronts with sidewalks nestled beneath porches. Before several establishments hitching rails awaited absentee horses.

With the sun now down most businesses were closed. When they came to a tavern ringing with laughter, Dangler sent him inside. Groups of men stood at a bar or sat around tables. He snagged the bar keeper's attention, inquiring if the place served meals. Only The Lodge—which catered to the wealthy—remained open at that hour, according to the bar man.

He got directions, then led the others through residential streets, and onto the grounds of the hotel. The two-story structure stood on a hill top. Lights blazing from the first floor public rooms and a roof-crowning cupola highlighted a fishpond planted in the middle of a manicured lawn.

"This place reminds me of a fancy Bavarian gasthas. We can't troop in there looking like tramps," Dangler said eyeing his charges.

They had been living rough for several days and looked every minute of it.

"I think you better go around back to the kitchen, Mark. See if you can round us up something to eat." Dangler then fabricated a story to offer the staff.

At the back of the hotel he located the kitchen by following his nose. Garbage cans, secured within racks, stood near a door. No one answered his knock. After several more tries he summoned the gumption to enter the kitchen.

A thickset fellow stood before an expansive stainless steel sink scrubbing a pot.

"Excuse me, sir," he began.

The man glanced over his shoulder and said, "What can I do for ya' kid?"

"Is the kitchen still open? Me and some pals have just hit town and haven't eaten for a time."

The cook turned, drying his hands on a food-stained white apron. "I can probably whip you up something left over from supper. I don't never like to see a 'jack' go hungry."

"That'd be swell. There's four of us."

"Um," the man stood with his hands on his hips thinking. "How about I heat up my elk stew. There's plenty of that. I can add a loaf or two of bread. That ought to fill any void."

"The guys would be real happy with that, I'm sure." He had never eaten elk in his life but was so hungry he would try anything.

"It'll be a few minutes—stew's cold. It don't taste good that way. I can't have you saying bad things about old Banner's cooking."

After Banner had a large pot heating on the stove the cook asked, "So which camp you boys in from?"

The question left him staring open-mouthed at Banner. How could the man know they had escaped from a camp?

"You're loggers, ain't you?"

"Oh, yeah," he recovered, but quickly changed the subject. "You make the stew yourself?"

"Hell, yes. No one else to do it. Elk is a dam site easier to cook up than moose. That's the critter I learned on up in Alaska."

"You've lived in Alaska?" He had never met anyone who had even visited there.

"Born and raised. You want to get your pals and come on in."

"We better eat out back." He spread his hands, indicating his soiled clothing. "We haven't had a chance to clean up, yet."

"Won't bother me none. I worked with lumberjacks for years. Was one myself 'til a tree came down on me. I'm so crippled up now I can't do anything but cook and talk."

"What brought you down here?"

"Weather. I'm not nearly so stiff when it's warmer. I thought I'd like the desert, but it was way too hot. This place, up at nine thousand feet, is just about right."

"And what about you, son? You talk like a Texan."

"That's right."

The aroma of the heating stew signaled the food would soon be ready.

"I'll go round up the guys."

When he stepped outside Thael was loitering near the door. They joined Dangler and Oster.

He explained the situation to Dieter. "I think it best that you and Peter stay outside. Willi and I can bring the food to you. That way you won't have to talk to the cook."

When he returned to the kitchen, Banner was dishing up bowls gooey with vegetables, chunks of meat, and brown gravy. He and Willi carried servings to Dangler and Oster, who sat at a crude picnic table nestled among small pine trees. Along with the bread and second helpings everyone was eventually satisfied. He paid Banner two dollars for the effort.

On their way to the lodge they had passed a small railroad staging yard containing six flatbed cars, coupled together, and piled high with logs. Chains cinched these triangular stacks, which averaged about six tiers, in place. Running to about 20 foot lengths, the trunks did not appear to steeple at the top. Thael mounted a car, clambering up the timber. He reported they were arranged so that a narrow space between the top two logs had been left vacant. A man could stretch out in this depression and remain hidden from below. Exhausted, they staggered into a shed near the tracks and soon slept.

# Chapter 29

Flies buzzed around Harvey Black. He flung his head about attempting to shoo them away.

Trussed up like an animal for gutting, he had thrashed wildly once Mark Stark and the three other escapees set off down to the trail towards Cloudcroft. After the outrage had ebbed, he began considering extrication.

Stark and he had not exchanged a word throughout the incident. After the other prisoners had tied his wrists, the traitor Stark loosened the knots on his right hand slightly. The cuff formed by a torn strip of his uniform seemed almost loose enough to slip off that hand. He began by compressing his fingers into a point and pulling. Not quite enough room to slide the hand out. Next he hung his weight off the arm, hoping to stretch the material. That effort also failed.

Insects continued to torment him. Fury flared anew. In a rage he began yanking his hand against the binding. He repeatedly jerked the arm with all his strength. The material gave more. When the shoulder pain resulting from his exertions permitted, he persisted with the same tugging exercises throughout the afternoon. Towards evening he succeeded in slipping free his right hand. It took little time to untie his left.

Without boots, clothing, or weapons, he had no choice but to return to the road. Minutes passed before he heard a vehicle labor up the incline. The car slowed when he waved, but sped away after spying a nearly naked man.

Eventually another vehicle appeared. He moved to the side of the highway and stretched near the roadside, where he would be out of danger but still visible. When the auto neared he feigned an injury by lifting his torso on one hand and signaling for help with the other. The ploy worked. The car skidded to a halt.

Fortunately, the escaped prisoners had tossed aside his car keys and wallet when they ripped the uniform to shreds. He had retrieved those before heading back to the highway.

After showing his badge, he explained the situation to the passer-by—a local rancher. He claimed a gang of inebriated boys had thought it great fun to leave him nearly naked in the woods.

The stockman was headed to Roswell but detoured off the main highway to let him out beside his car that he had left in the mountain village of Ruidoso. By this hour all the mercantile establishments were closed for the night. The rancher did provide one last service. He rounded up food, drink, and cigarettes from a small café, before getting on his way again.

Three choices came to mind for obtaining clothing. One, he might rob a clothesline—behavior unbecoming a lawman. Two, he could return to Ft. Stanton in his drawers and don a fresh uniform. That would result in ridicule from his fellow officers. An explanation would be required, since his commanding officer believed him away on personal leave due to an injured ankle. Moreover, he would not admit that he had been taken by a group of four civilians that he had been pursuing.

Option three—sleep in the Studebaker until morning, then scoot inside a store when it opened and buy clothing. He drove up a side street that climbed into the pine forest and settled down for the night.

Before eight o'clock the following morning he cruised along Ruidoso's unpaved main thoroughfare, which meandered down a canyon. Many businesses boasted a beer brewer's logo, signifying a bar or tavern. A few cafés dotted the road. Amid this eclectic collection of structures he eventually located a dry goods purveyor and angled the auto in close to the entrance.

Within minutes the proprietor—fortunately a male—arrived and unlocked the front door. He hopped out of the coupe and crowded him inside. The startled shopkeeper grabbed a broom for defense, apparently believing a mad man was accosting him. He produced his badge while telling the story of being jumped by a gang of boys. Thereafter the storekeeper fixed him up with a set of civilian clothing.

During the restless night spent in a car, he had weighed his next move. After being captured he had watched the fugitives start out along the path towards Cloudcroft. The group had potentially gained another eighteen hours lead. In all likelihood overtaking them on the trail would prove impossible. His best opportunity for interdiction was at Cloudcroft.

Later that morning he rounded a bend, braking the Studebaker as the road spilled into the mountain village. He rolled past a small railroad yard.

# Chapter 30

The echo of a repeatedly exhaling steam whistle alerted Dangler that a locomotive neared. The sun had risen; the day was underway in Cloudcroft.

From within a shed that stood alongside the tracks he watched an engine chug into view. A string of five empty logging cars trailed the engine. Attached to the tail end was a second locomotive. Tenders adjacent to the engines were piled high with small wood to fire the boilers. He supposed that surmounting the steep mountain roadbeds required a second engine.

The brakemen proceeded to decouple the empty flatbed wagons. Then replace them with the log-ladened string of cars that Thael had investigated the prior evening. The group planned to use that train to escape Cloudcroft. The tracks terminated here. That meant they would continue moving further away from Ft. Stanton and the Border Patrol man on their tail.

With the new train made up, the crew wandered away. He was out of the shed door and about to lead his group to the waiting cars when a flashy white coupe drove up. He shooed the others back inside. The car halted. Looking into the morning sun, he watched a man emerge and motion one of the railroaders over.

When Black saw a train with the locomotives belching smoke, he figured it would soon depart. He parked, climbed out, and went looking for the rail gang's foreman.

When he found the man he asked, "You seen anybody around who doesn't belong?"

"What's it to you?"

"Border Patrol." He showed his badge. "Chasing four men who escaped from a holding camp."

"No, I haven't, sir." The roughneck had grown respectful.

"Were you or any of the crew here overnight?"

"No, we came up this morning. When they've got a load they call down to Alamogordo. We bring up these empty cars and take the full ones back down."

Hands on hips, he surveyed the cars stacked high with timber. "Can you have your boys climb up and check to make sure there's no one hiding down amongst the logs?"

"Yes, sir."

The man hustled towards his mates. Soon the trainmen were scrambling over the pyramided timber. His attention turned to the surrounding area. There were a few piles of logs lying near the tracks waiting to be loaded. He walked around each, examining them carefully for any space where a person could hide. That effort proved fruitless. A tin shed offered the only other place the prisoners might be. He started towards it.

Within the shed Dangler pressed his eye to a hole in the sheet metal siding. He had observed a civilian emerge from the white car and speak with one of the yard gang. Soon the crew was scaling the log-laden cars. The man searched the grounds. Now he headed towards their hiding place.

"My god, that's Black," exclaimed Stark, who had located another puncture in the wall through which to view the area.

Thael had discovered an ax handle in the building and now hefted it as he took a position behind the door. "If he comes in I'm gonna' club him to death."

"No need for that," Stark said. "We can take him like we did yesterday. I don't think he's armed."

"To hell with that, you sissy," Thael hissed. "I've had enough of him dogging us. Besides, if he yells for help the yardmen will come running."

Black was reaching for the shed's door handle when a voice called, "Hey, officer."

He turned to see the railroader he had spoken to earlier approaching. "We didn't find nothing. But one of the boys told me he'd seen a group of men walking down main street last night."

"Which one said that? I want to talk to him." His pulse quickened.

"It was Jakie. He's right over there."

"Tell me about the group you saw last night?" he queried Jakie.

"They was four guys. Could have been loggers. Not built exactly right, though."

"What were they up to?"

"I don't know, mister. They were walking along the main street. Kinda looking in the taverns. They headed off that way, I think." Jakie pointed towards a neighborhood of small cabins and frame houses.

He had something solid, was certain that Stark and the others had been here. He headed the Studebaker for town. After parking the Champion at one end of the commercial street, he began stopping pedestrians and speaking with shopkeepers concerning a foursome of strangers. He had worked the length of the businesses—about two blocks—and turned up nothing.

Just before stepping out of the last cafe, he inquired of the owner if there were places beyond the main drag where meals were served. That would have to have been one of the prey's first needs, as it had been with him. She responded that there were some private homes that took in boarders and a hotel or two.

The likelihood of the four he sought stopping in at a hotel in their ratty state seemed remote. He randomly drove several residential streets that seemed to be in the direction which Jakie had pointed, halting whenever he saw a sign indicating that a dwelling housed visitors. The landlords and ladies he spoke with offered nothing to confirm the group had passed this way.

# Chapter 31

Dangler had watched the Border Patrol man climb into his car and drive away, seemingly satisfied they were not aboard the train. Thermoses in hand, the workers wandered off for a break.

At that point he swung back the door. Everyone broke for the train. They climbed the short ladders leading to the flatcar bed and then clambered up the stacked logs to the V-shaped depression at the top.

He was confident that the train they had snuck aboard was headed for Alamogordo because several lumber mills waited there to devour the timber. He had read the Alamogordo and Sacramento Railroad's history in the camp library.

Trackage pushing across the barren southwest demanded wooden cross ties. Pine forests thrived in the high country flanking the desert. Rails were laid up into the forests to supply the needed wood. At one point the entire mountain range had been riddled with tracks. Many had been abandoned—yielding to log hauling trucks. But the main line down from the highlands of the A&S Railroad remained active.

Within minutes of boarding, the train shivered, then inched ahead, gradually adding speed as it started down the incline. It had barely left Cloudcroft behind when it slowed.

He peeked beyond the logs, staring down at a gaping abyss. The cars apparently crept across a trestle. The structure and rails remained out of view. He saw nothing but a canyon extending down to the shimmering White Sands desert. Ahead rails serpentined out of sight along a ledge chiseled into a cliff face.

When their speed increased he glanced back to view the spindly, wooden construction bridging a canyon they had just traversed. No doubt separating the weight of the two locomotives added to the safety.

They had gone but a few kilometers when the cars shuddered to a stop. A moment later the train reversed direction. He panicked. Had someone seen them board the train and ordered it back to Cloudcroft?

# Chapter 32

Black's search of Cloudcroft eventually led him to a stately looking hotel signposted as "The Lodge." The morning was well along and having not eaten since the previous evening, he stopped for a meal. The front desk was immediately inside the entrance. He questioned the clerk concerning whether a group of four unkempt men might have spent the previous night there. As expected, no one fitting those criteria had registered.

A bar and restaurant were located off The Lodge's cozy lobby. Once seated, a young woman of Indian descent came to serve him. He assumed she must be from the Mescalero Apache Reservation, which lay close by. He asked if she had seen the group he sought. She had not been on duty then, but offered to inquire of those working in the kitchen.

Meal finished, he was withdrawing the napkin he had tucked into his collar when a man of considerable girth and sporting a full set of mutton chop whiskers came to his table. The apron identified him as a cook.

"Banner's the name. I run the kitchen. Kusuma said you was asking about some folks that might have been here last night."

"They are two Americans and two German type men. I'm a law officer. They're on the run."

"That explains it," Banner nodded. "I was wondering why they ate in the yard out back. One boy came to the kitchen door. I only saw him and another kid. But they said there was four of them, and they ate double helpings of my elk stew."

"You're pretty sure they weren't loggers?"

"I'd guess not. I've been around that lot for years. The two boys that came in were scruffy enough—they'd been in the woods all right, no doubt about that. But if they had been 'jacks,' they hadn't been at it long. One was way too weak for that kind of job."

"Did they say anything about where they were heading?"

"Sorry, I didn't pay much attention. The one who did most of the talking was from Texas, if that helps."

"Yes, it does."

He quickly settled the bill. The four internees had eaten here last night, of that he was convinced. Where were they now? They were undoubtedly footsore from their long hike. He was willing to wager they had either highjacked a vehicle and headed down the road to Alamogordo, or possible hopped on one of the logging trains.

Next, he hunted up the village's part-time constable. The man was a mechanic. He found him at his garage. The local lawman said that no one had reported a vehicle missing.

Back at the rail yard, only empty flatcars remained. The loaded train had departed sometime ago. He also learned that only one train had left Cloudcroft in the past two days—the one he had observed being searched. Could they have boarded after he checked the cars? He hustled to his coupe, forcing it down the treacherous road that clung to a canyon side as quickly as he dared.

# Chapter 33

When the train halted just outside Cloudcroft and then started backing up, everyone's head was up trying to determine what was going on. Should they leap off and disappear into the woods? Thael was already straddling a pine trunk, preparing to flee.

Dangler glanced back, instantly understanding the reversal. On a narrow plateau with an escarpment on one side the tracks had been laid out in the shape of the letter "Y." A switch at the intersection of the two diagonals allowed trains to enter on one arm and pull to the foot of the letter. After the switch was thrown, the cars departed on the other arm. Thus, negotiating a 180-degree change in direction in space far too cramped for the sweeping radius that turning tracks typically required.

When the train began moving it was actually continuing on down the mountain with the tail-end locomotive now at the front. Everyone relaxed and again reclined between the logs at the top of the heap.

The morning had been sunny when they boarded in Cloudcroft. Now thunderheads bubbled above. The train could not have been making more than 20 kilometers per hour. Would they beat the gathering storm?

As they rounded another bend, pea-sized drops of rain began to pelt down. The temperature dropped several degrees. Lightening cracked into a tree near the tracks, splintering the trunk. Within moments the clouds spit soft hail the diameter of hazelnuts. Then the size of the bombarding ice globules increased to prune-size and hardened. He rolled onto his stomach, shielding his head with his hands.

As quickly as the storm had gathered it withered. The grade flattened. They passed through rain-wetted orchards glistening in the sunshine. The cars rattled on picking up speed. The track straightened. Greenery melded into desert scrub. They eventually steamed into the switching yard at Alamogordo.

Here the mountain line merged with the Southern Pacific railroad. As long as they boarded a train heading south it would carry them to El Paso—their next destination.

The log bearing train halted. On a parallel track harnessed to a huffing locomotive stood open hopper cars. The engine pointed south. The troop hustled aboard one of the cars. Shortly thereafter the train stirred to life.

# Chapter 34

By the time Black arrived in Alamogordo, the cars loaded with logs from Cloudcroft had been shunted onto a siding. He mounted one of the cars, scrambling to the top of the pyramided timber. From there he scanned the remaining cars. The prey had vanished.

The stationmaster told him that only one train had traveled the Southern Pacific's tracks since the logging train had arrived. That freight had stopped next to the Cloudcroft train before heading to El Paso.

Moments later he was accelerating on the straight and level desert road heading south. He didn't let up on the gas pedal until the Studebaker's speedometer needle pegged at the top of the arc. Eventually the vehicle overheated. He stopped, refilling the radiator from the hessian water bag slung off the front bumper. From there on in he kept the speed down.

# Chapter 35

When the freight train slowed as it entered the El Paso switching yard, Dangler began peeking over the side of the hopper car. For the past several hours they had rolled south through a desert. The train finally crept to a stop. He relaxed slightly. There had been police along the tracks looking for them. Apparently Patrolman Black had yet to alert the authorities here.

They had traveled a fair distance from Fort Stanton and were now in a city. The passage of time and space heightened the chances of escape. Nevertheless, they must quickly locate an eastbound freight in the sprawling marshaling yard.

"I need you to find us a train going towards San Antonio, Mark."

He would have preferred to send Thael but the young man had developed diarrhea on the ride from Alamogordo. They had lived rough the past few days. Thael may have sickened from drinking from mountain streams, or from eating food that could well have spoiled due to long exposure to heat. Willi lay balled in the car, weak from dehydration and wracked with stomach cramps.

"I'd rather not," Mark said. "I've been feeling a little guilty about us riding on these trains. It's really not right, you know. Technically, it's stealing from the railroads. Besides, my grandfather said it's dangerous to hop aboard one."

He had to consciously stop from rolling his eyes at the naivety.

"It's not 'legal' to break out of a prison camp either," Thael snorted.

Stark ignored the remark.

"Aw, grow up, you big baby." Thael spat.

"Shut up, you . . . you fascist freak."

"Come on 'baby boy.' Sick as I am, I can still whip a 'baby's' ass." Thael wobbled onto his feet, assumed a boxer's pose, fists up, shoulders hunched.

"Stop!" Dangler thundered. "Very well, Mark, I'll see what I can find out. If I give you some money, do you suppose you could get to a grocery store and buy us some provision for the trip."

Stark agreed. He handed over a few bills, but wondered if Stark would desert. Tension between the two Americans had mounted. The callow young man had agreed back in the camp to aid them, saying only, "I'll help you get out of here." On reconsideration he now realized Stark would not walk away with someone else's grocery money.

"Why not just climb inside one of those," Oster pointed to a string of boxcars idling in the afternoon sun. "They're pointing east, I think."

"This is a big switching yard. They move cars around all day. We've got to have good information," he pointed out.

Since their break from the funeral service, he had discovered that Oster lacked a certain practicality—a result of living in a city and working in an office much of his life, most probably.

Better act like you know where you're going, he cautioned himself before climbing down to the ballast. He ducked beneath the first rank of cars and stood in a narrow chasm between two trains. A break in the next chain of freight cars allowed him to slip through the string.

On emerging out the other side, he faced a lumbering train. Vertigo billowed. It appeared the silent train remained stationary and it was he moving. Standing motionless, his senses rebelled. He reeled back into the gap to avoid stumbling beneath the behemoth's wheels. Then realizing that this line of cars might move and crush him without warning he skittered back to safety at the edge of the yard.

"Watcha' you doin' there, mister," a voice slurred from behind.

He pivoted around. An unshaven man in tattered clothing looked him in the eye.

"Thought maybe I could help. I'm not a 'cinder dick' 'nur nothin' like that."

Although inebriated, this hobo might be able to tell him where to find a train bound for San Antonio.

"I've been on the rails for years now. Coast to coast, more than onced."

"I want to go to San Antonio."

"You got 'nough dough for a fifth of hooch? You give me a five spot, and I'll get you to the right train. Okay?"

He did like the panhandler's directness. "Yes."

"Lem'me go find your train. I'll meet you back here shortly."

When Mark returned with grocery bags of food, he brought the team back to the location where he had met the bum. The others hung back and remained silent. He stepped forward to speak with the inebriant.

"My friends," he thumbed over his shoulder at the others in explanation.

He paid the hobo, who motioned to follow, and then set off on a zigzag course deep into the switching yard. The others trailed at a distance. Their guide stopped besides a shiny black coal tender bearing the Southern Pacific logotype.

"She's all made up. Pulling out for San Antone' any time—know the yardmaster's helper, I do." The drunk escort offered an overdrawn wink. "When I got it, we shares a nip during his coffee break."

A distant whistle shrilled.

"Along this line of cars you should find an unlocked door. When you do hop in." The wizened little man loosed a belch. "Best if it's toward the tail end and got something to hide under. Then stay real quite 'til they roll—don't want the railroad cops to hear you gabbing."

The four of them scuttled along the cars, trying each door. At one cracked open a few inches, he tugged until it skidded wide. Within stood large cylinders wrapped in heavy kraft paper. Stark made a stirrup of his hands and gave Thael a leg up. Then Thael helped Mark in. It took Thael and Stark's combined effort with him pushing from behind to hoist Oster into the car. The two Americans were getting into position to lift Dangler through the door when the car shifted.

"This thing's moving," Stark cried.

He leaped back as the train inched away. Uncertain of how to board the moving car he walked beside it. The train continued to gather speed.

While jogging along with the train, keeping his distance, he reached for the outstretched hands of Oster and Stark. Oster managed to clutch the fingers of his left hand. Stark fastened a firm grip around his right wrist. Then Oster lost his hold. Stark hung on. Now the train dragged him along. His legs pumped, attempting to trot beside the car. Then he stumbled on the stone ballast. Stark, realizing the danger, freed his other arm. He tumbled to the roadbed.

A wheel squealed deafeningly near. Paralyzed by fear, he lay still. The din of the next set of trucks pierced his brain. He rolled away from the tracks. In the moments it took to regain his feet the car, had moved at least five meters. He started after it. The gravel offered treacherous footing. Another tumble might cost him a limb, or worse. But he had to sprint or the train would leave him. If they became separated the entire mission might end before it started.

Ankles wobbling on the uneven surface, he gained on the door. Oster and Stark lay prone on the boxcar's floor with their arms outstretched. The train racketed ahead. Only inches separated him from the grasp of those aboard. On his next stride, like trapeze flyers, he and Stark clamped hands around wrists. The train's motion yanked him off his feet. As he fell away Oster caught a forearm. His ribs crashed into the car driving the air from his lungs. Incapacitated, his feet bounced across the timber cross ties.

"Willi, help us," Stark screamed.

Thael appeared, leaned out, grabbed a fistful of his waistband, and lifted. Then Thael lost his footing in the swaying car, reeling backwards. The movement tugged Dangler into the opening. The men crabbed back from the door, hauling his torso with them. A final heave settled him on top of Oster and Stark. Once they untangled he crawled away from the others and stretched out, shutting his eyes to blot out the terror of the preceding moments.

# Chapter 36

Upon reaching the El Paso central rail yard Black asked for directions to the yardmaster's office. It occupied the second floor of a building, which afforded a view of the multitudinous parallel trackage surrounding it. A man he met coming out of the structure told him Mr. Loupe was inside. He rushed up the steps.

Yardmaster Loupe wore starched and creased blue coveralls over a white dress shirt and bow tie. It appeared to him that the man must have donned worker's clothes all his life and now, even though "kicked upstairs," literally, to a desk job, preferred the traditional railroaders' bibbed attire. A half-smoked, well-chewed cigar drooped from the side of meaty lips.

"I'm on the trail of some Nazis," he announced, slapping his credentials on the desk.

Loupe nearly fell backward out of the tilted chair attempting to hurriedly dislodge his feet from the desk and stand to attention. "You think they are here—in my yard?"

"They came in on the last train from up north."

"Wh—what do I do?" the burly railroad employee stammered as he moved to a window and began surveying the tracks below.

"I don't think they plan to sabotage this place—they're on the run. My guess is they figure on hopping a train and heading as far away from El Paso as possible."

"How can you be sure what those 'shitzel eaters' are up to?" Loupe laid the cold cigar in a massive iron ashtray fabricated from some remnant of an old rail car axel.

"Can't be certain; but what I want you to do is gather your crews and search the yard." He offered a rough description of each escaped prisoner.

When Loupe returned from initiating the search Black said, "You must stop any more trains from departing until I nab them."

"That's way beyond what I'm allowed to do. I'll make a telephone call if you want—try to put you on the horn with the dispatcher. But that may not be necessary. We aren't scheduled to send anything out for the next few hours. By then we should know if they are here, or not, right?"

Rather than stand around, Black also joined in the hunt. After approximately two hours of looking into rail cars the search was winding down. The only outsider they turned up was a drunk hobo sleeping in a boxcar. The man, who identified himself as John Yost, had been brought to Loupe's office.

"What are you doing hanging around the switching yard?" Black questioned.

"Don't got's no place else to go." Clearly under the influence of alcohol, Yost mumbled.

"Did you see any other strangers around here today?"

He noted Yost's eyes narrow. This drifter knew something.

"What did you see?" He glared at the bum, who looked down.

The drunk finally looked at Loupe sheepishly.

"I'm sure if you tell me what you know it won't get you in any trouble with Mr. Loupe." Black ignored the yardmaster as he made the offer of amnesty.

A few beats passed before Yost spoke. "I saw some men around."

"How many?"

"Four, I think."

"You speak to them?"

Yost looked out a window at the same time shaking his head rapidly in denial.

He sniffed a lie. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

He grilled Yost for several more minutes but the bum stayed with his story, admitting only that he had seen four men, while claiming he had not spoken with them.

There was more to the encounter, of that he was certain. But Yost clammed up. At each pause he gave the hobo time to reconsider. Yost invariably drifted off into a stupor. He ordered Loupe to get some coffee down the tramp.

As they waited for Yost to sober some, he conferred with Loupe. The yardmaster told him that between the time the train that had passed through Alamogordo reached El Paso and the search for the fugitives began four trains had departed. Two went west, one south into Mexico, and one east.

After Yost became somewhat more alert he began again, trying a different tack. "I need your help. I'm on the tail of some Nazi saboteurs."

Yost gasped through rotting teeth.

"You talked to them, didn't you?"

The vagrant nodded.

"They wanted to know about departing trains, didn't they? Which way were they heading?"

A tremor spread thorough Yost. He closed his eyes. When he opened them tears streamed down his cheeks.

"I can't remember," Yost whimpered.

"What!" He grabbed the man and shook him, as if to rattle the answer out.

"Don't hit me, sir."

"I need to know which direction these men are heading. You realize your country is at war with them. If you don't tell me what you know, I'll have you in a lockup, a prison, or worse."

"I know I'm in trouble," Yost sobbed. "If I knew, I'd tell you in a second."

"How can you not remember. It was only hours ago?"

"It's the bottle. I've been hitting it pretty hard lately. Having a lot of blackouts where I lose hours—not knowing what's been happening. Had a snootful this morning."

"Try to remember," he urged.

"Sir, I could make something up, maybe get myself off the hook, but that won't help you, if you go off in the wrong direction." Yost put his head in his hands.

"Will it get better? Will your memory eventually come back?"

"I don't know, sometimes."

He was stymied, but wanted to believe that Yost would help if he were able. He told Loupe to find the bum a bed and keep him away from any alcohol. Maybe when completely sober Yost could remember which way the men were headed.

He needed to stand down. Exhausted, having not slept well since the breakout, he drove to his home. There he intended to rest, hoping some indication of the route the internees had taken might develop overnight.

The following morning, he was awakened with the news that a beloved nephew was missing in action. The boy was serving with the US Eighth Air Force. His aircraft had not returned from a bombing raid over Germany. The alarming development had, of course, left his widowed sister-in-law distraught.

Black's brother, the missing airman's father, had passed away leaving a nine year old son. Black, who had only daughters, had stood in for the deceased dad for over ten years. He cared deeply for the lad.

He checked in at the railroad office during the day. A now sober Yost was still not certain about the conversation with the men from Ft. Stanton. He did admit to a fuzzy recollection of the mention of San Antonio. No other leads had developed.

After hours of agonizing over whether to continue the pursuit, or tend to family obligations, he set off for San Antonio.

# Chapter 37

When Stark showed up at his room the morning following their arrival in Brownsville, Dangler nearly whooped for joy.

Mark had, apparently, remained true to his word and would aid him until the purported escape into Mexico. The four men had weathered a harrowing train journey, a trip that had undoubtedly shattered three of them.

After they had slipped off the train on the outskirts of town yesterday evening, their first task was to locate a secluded place to live. Thael had rented this apartment, located above a residential garage, for the two Germans. Dangler and Oster planned to stay out of sight whenever possible.

The structure stood along a fence-lined alley that provided street access without having to pass near the main house. Thus, this back passage allowed any of them to come and go with minimal risk of a neighbor spotting them. The apartment would serve as a gathering place.

Transportation had been his next concern. It did not appear that buses or trolleys served the city. He noted any number of shabby bicycles propped against buildings, deciding that the theft of several of the two-wheelers would be far less interesting to local police than that of an automobile.

He had sent Thael on a mission to round up bikes from widely distant neighborhoods just after nightfall. Willi had accomplished the task in record time. Then he had sent the two young Americans off to rent a room where they would sleep.

Mark had climbed the stairs to the garage apartment but remained on a small porch outside.

He asked through the screen door, "I trust you and Willi have found a place to stay?"

"Yep. It's not much, but it will do."

"Good. I've got something to discuss with you. Come on in."

Arms folded, head cocked, Stark slouched against the door surround.

"I'm okay out here."

"You, sure?" He said through the screen.

Stark nodded. "I just came by to see if you had made contact with the man who is going to get you into Mexico?"

"Not yet, we just arrived yesterday. It may take a few days."

The time had come to determine if Stark could be inveigled into further involvement in the mission? The American had committed the initial offense against his country by fleeing from Fort Stanton. Thus tainted, would the scheme he was about to present be seen as only a minor additional infraction?

He had carefully considered the proposition about to be presented. As many elements of truthfulness as possible had been woven into the script. The dodge was in the ending.

"If I told you there is something underway that might allow you to be reunited with your family within a few months would you want to be part of it? Would you be willing to listen to the idea and keep it to yourself?"

"What are you talking about, Dieter?"

"It is complicated. You'll need to hear the entire plan. But before saying more I must have your promise to not repeat any of it to anyone."

Mark possessed a deep seated notion of honor. If he accepted this condition Dangler felt somewhat confident the naive American would keep his mouth shut.

Stark did not speak or nod agreement. He decided silence equalled an assent to the terms and began. Nevertheless, he hated holding this crucial conversation through a screened door which prevented him from judging how the words were effecting the young American.

"Let me start by saying that there is no question in my mind that Hitler will lose this war. What I am about to reveal will in no way change that. Mark, I hope you realize that we Germans are not a bad people. It is just that fate has not been good to us in recent years. Now we are in deep, deep trouble.

"I know a little US history. When I compare it to Germany's, yours is so peaceful. A long time ago you rebelled against a king. Since then, other than what I believe is called the 'War Between the States,' you've had no revolutions, no political chaos. American society has been cushioned from crises. In the last 25 years we Germans have been through a similar amount of turmoil as you've been through in 200 years. I can remember the times when our king rode in parades."

One of his earliest recollections involved watching Germany's Kaiser mounted on a prancing stallion parading down a Munich street. His father wrote for a newspaper with offices located along the route. He sat above the throng, legs dangling from a window ledge, viewing the pageantry associated with an institution that believed divine right had placed its bloodline on the throne.

A comfortable—although somewhat economically humble childhood—had been his. The atmosphere around the kitchen table blazed with philosophy and politics, nonetheless. Believing the Kaiser exerted too much authority, his father argued for the equivalent of a constitutional monarchy: strengthening the hand of elected representatives, thus holding the autocrat accountable to the citizenry for his actions.

Following in his papa's footsteps, he came of age preparing for a journalistic career. The assassination of an Austrian Arch Duke changed that. Within weeks Germany warred with France, England and Russia.

When the nation mobilized he and his friends volunteered for the army. On conscription day they anticipated a grand adventure—the most exciting of their lives. A month in the frontline trenches disillusioned all but the most rabid. A gunshot wound cut short his sentence in that hell. After convalescence he returned to a headquarters command behind the lines. His typing skill led to a position transcribing intelligence estimates. By the time Germany surrendered he had climbed several ranks.

The bankrupt nation flushed most soldiers back into civilian society. He missed the first demobilizations but witnessed the results. Notwithstanding the euphoria at having survived the trenches, veterans mustered out to bleak opportunities as the victors claimed their war spoils. He opted to stay in the drastically shrunk armed forces and succeeded, due to the attention of the influential general he served. Eventually he was assigned to catalogue developments in the United States affecting Germany.

"After we lost the last war things went down hill. Our king was exiled and the victors told us the type of government we should have. It was called the Weimar Republic. We might have been able to manage except that the Bolsheviks started creeping in from Russia.

"That set the stage for a battle between the old-line politicians that didn't quite understand or trust democracy and the leftists who wanted to impose socialism on us. We tried to go from a monarchy to a self-governing country while at the same time recovering from losing a war and enduring an economic depression. No one could find a job and the money became worthless.

"Then the Nazis began to win elections and Hitler finally wrestled control of the nation. It's hard to explain how relieved we felt when all the uncertainty over the future ended. After years of upheaval we finally had at last elected a chancellor. For many Germans the whole process of choosing our own leaders had become so nasty that they almost welcomed the strong-arming of the Nazis. We wanted someone, anyone, who would return us to a functioning civilization."

He thought back to the enthusiasm that gripped the citizenry as Hitler's vision for Germany's resurrection took root. He became a party sympathizer—members of the armed forces could not join at that time. In retrospect, he now realized, he soon became a prisoner of his patriotism.

"For me, Hitler was not perfect but he was so much better than anything we'd had before. I trusted him. I'll admit that. The more power we turned over, the more he took. Soon the Nazis ran everything. Then things gradually went out of control. Now we have this mad man in power. We are on the brink of losing another war."

He sensed Stark's waning interest. The time had come to make his point.

"But there are those in Germany trying to do something about the situation. They are high-ranking military officers and government ministers. They understand that the only way to save the nation is to get rid of Hitler. And that will only happen when he is dead.

"Another thing we all fear is that the Russians will rush in and take control of our homeland. To end the bloodshed and avoid a Russian takeover this anti-Nazi faction is willing to virtually surrender the nation to the Allies."

He paused for a moment and hoped Mark would comment. Stark said not a word.

"Is this making sense?" he asked.

"Not yet. I don't see where it is leading," Mark said.

"I am about to get to that. The problem is that President Roosevelt will not meet or allow any of his staff to meet with a representative from the faction wishing to remove Hitler and make peace.

"Apparently there has been contact with Washington through some channel. I am assuming that these officers have asked how an overthrow of Hitler would be received by America. The rumor is that Roosevelt will only settle for a total surrender of Germany—nothing less.

"This 'peace movement' I am speaking of believes they have come up with a way to gain Washington's attention. The way they hope to accomplish that is to temporarily take custody of a war secret. The hope is that action will motivate the President and his staff to at least talk with them, and allow them to prove they are a force with some influence."

Stark's mouth dropped.

"Don't worry the secret is never going to fall into the wrong hands—that would be absolutely contrary to our aims. It will never leave the country. The plan is to hide it in a secure location not far away.

"Then there will be communications with the US government. The Germans leading the effort will ask the President to listen to the emissary's proposals about how Germany can be surrendered after they have disposed of Hitler. With the meeting over the secret will be returned.

"Think about this. With Hitler gone the war would end in weeks. And that means your family would be out of internment camps overnight. People who know far more about this then me say if things remain the same, if Hitler stays in power, the fighting will drag on for one to two years."

"Why don't these people your are talking about just go ahead and kill Hitler and then surrender?" Mark said petulantly.

"It is far from a sure thing that they will be successful in an attempt on Hitler's life. For these men to put their own lives on the line in an assassination without some hope of saving the nation from utter destruction is too much to ask of them on faith alone. They want to hear from the US government that terms can be discussed. Then they will act.

"They believe that if Roosevelt would just send one of his people to listen to their pleas your President would realize that we are different from Hitler and his Nazis."

"What if no deal get's made?"

It appeared he had Stark thinking. "Your government will be told where the secret item is hidden. All the peace faction wants is a meeting."

"Are you a spy?"

Stark's question was totally unexpected. The boy had been listening, after all.

He drew a breath, composing his reply. He had avoided mentioning any connection to the existing governmental apparatus in Germany to the idealistic American youth.

Heedful of the SS's fearsome reputation and aware that even expatriate Germans, let alone foreigners, were confused about the convolution of Hitler's multiple police organizations, he had believed it best to obscure his prior position with the Abwehr. Now he must invent a story to legitimize his involvement in the espionage.

"I am not an enemy agent. What I told you a long time ago about my being a salesman and working in this country is true."

"Then, how come they asked you to do this and not some spy?"

"I have a relative," he extemporized. "The man is well connected to certain people who were once high up in the government—before Hitler. The contact came through him. Why they asked me is a mystery. They may have several of us all attempting in different ways to secure a meeting with the Americans, for all I know."

Stark stared at a nearby flowering bush, refusing to look at him. A moment later the American turned and started down the stairs without saying a word. He heard the stairs creaking but did not believe Stark had departed, suspecting he had taken a seat on the steps to mull over the situation. After a quarter hour he looked out, finding Mark crouched on the steps. He went out and sat on a step above and behind him.

"Mark, you've got to believe me when I say, I want America to win the war."

The statement was not totally false. If Germany surrendered to the western powers, if some shred of national dignity and culture could be preserved, he would be satisfied with his efforts.

"I firmly believe that what I'm attempting will help accomplish that goal."

"I don't understand all this."

"Why don't we go inside? We can talk more."

When they rose and stepped into the apartment he sensed a win in round one. Would the half-truth he was about to layout for the American secure Stark's continued cooperation? He did intend to spirit the critical jet material to Germany. He did not trust revealing that fact to Stark, at least for now.

"There is a new airplane engine being stested at the airport here in Brownsville. I was contacted and asked to try to carry out a plan to remove a part from the engine and hide it before I left for Germany. Just after that I was arrested. You know the rest of my story."

Stark slowly shook his head. "Dieter, stealing a part from a war plane is wrong. A lot of servicemen could get killed because of that."

"Many more will be killed if Hitler stays in power and the war drags on. Remember, the part isn't going to Germany. It will be hidden a few miles from here. The Americans will have it back in good order. Of course, they won't realize that until later. In the meantime, there will be this high-level meeting that may lead to a quick surrender. I don't have to remind you what that will mean for your grandparents."

Mark turned towards the door, about to leave. He much preferred Stark over Thael for reconnoitering the airfield. The place was chockablock with soldiers, and Thael had proven irascible when around Americans in uniforms. He made a last attempt to keep Stark involved.

"All I'm asking is that you go out to the airport and keep your eyes and ears open. Talk to the people there. Listen to what they say. I'm not even sure how secret this engine is. I've been told there are many people working on it, talking about it. Bystanders can even watch the big bomber takeoff and land."

# Chapter 38

From a bench in the shade of a hangar, Mark watched the small airplane land. It rolled to a stop in front of the building. The engine shut down.

The pilot squirmed free of the plane's cockpit. A leather helmet hid the hair. He sensed a female form beneath the coveralls. Then womanly hips bent over the coaming into the fuselage, filling out the white material and confirming his guess. She bobbed up periodically, each time handing a man who had greeted her boxes. After leaping from the wing, she pealed off the cap, fluffing out a beet-red mop.

The two walked in his direction. As they ambled by he heard the girl tallying the price of delivering the parcels. Although involved in that conversation, she flashed a faint smile his way.

While she appeared to be of white heritage, he recognized several Spanish words that he had heard so often since arriving in Brownsville yesterday. The English fractured with Spanish was one more thing that made this place seem as though it were not really back in his home state of Texas.

El Paso, where the hobo had helped locate the train heading to San Antonio, had also seemed foreign. Only as the freight car had rolled through the hills northwest of San Antonio had it seemed like home. He had watched through the slit of the opened door. Staring at the familiar limestone cliffs and draws deepened his sadness.

The transfer to the Brownsville-bound train in San Antonio had been hellish. Except for his commitment to help the others, he would have abandoned them at that point. Of course, they were on the last leg of the journey to the border. He had determined it was best to see the other three into Mexico from whence they could make their way to Germany. With them gone he could deny any connection beyond escaping together.

Everything had changed with Dangler's revelation hours ago of the plan to take a warplane part. He would never have become involved with them back in New Mexico had he known of the subversion.

What would happen to him if he went to the authorities at this point? Prison, probably? Life on the ranch that he had taken for granted but a few months ago now seemed lost.

He wondered if what Dangler had said that morning about a scheme to end the war quickly had any chance of succeeding? Might he actually do something that would lead to the freeing of his grandparents from the internment camp in the near future? If he aided Dangler with the espionage and the Nazis then went on their way to Mexico could he actually extricate himself from the jam he was in?

With those thoughts in mind, he had finally decided to visit the airport. He would ask some questions see what he could find out. But he drew the line at anything beyond that. He would not take part in a theft.

His attention drifted back to the pilot and man. They had stopped at a panel truck parked nearby, continuing to chat as the fellow stowed the cartons. Her accent differed from other Americans—it was guttural, resembling Dangler and Oster's. He suspected that she, like the Germans, had not learned English in the cradle. Maybe the association these past weeks with foreigners was the reason he felt he might speak to her.

The delivery van pulled away. The woman, of average size, headed in his direction. He stood. Could he start up a conversation with her, ask about the jet engine?

"Howdy," she called from a few paces away. "Haven't seen you around before. Waiting for someone?"

Eyes the color of green jade fixed his.

"Naw, I just like airplanes," he finally managed after a long second.

"Me, too."

Pearly teeth flashed through her grin.

"You a flyer?" she asked.

Her breezy manner lifted his confidence. "Nope, but I know you are. I watched you land."

"Just an old 'airport rat.'" She twisted from the waist, apparently loosening back muscles.

"A what?"

"That's what we call pilots that hang around airfields waiting for work."

Her fingers strained the short, red locks, fluffing hair that had been plastered by the leather helmet.

"That's a funny thing to call yourself."

"You mean because I'm a woman?"

"I guess."

"I learned long ago that to get anywhere in aviation I'd better be 'one of the boys.' It's tough enough for a female to break into this game, without acting prissy."

She flopped down on the bench, leaned against the hangar, and stretched out legs clad in white overalls.

He sat as well. "I thought there were a lot of women pilots nowadays."

"There are lots more today," she said with a nod. "And it's not nearly so hard as when some of the early ones, like Amelia Earhart, started."

"I've heard of her. Hadn't she gone down somewhere over the ocean on a daredevil flight?"

"Yes. Amelia was a great aviator—has always been one of my idols. When I started flying I dreamed of meeting her. She was right here with Lindberg on the day they dedicated that building."

She pointed to the terminal, which he had walked through earlier.

"You saw them?"

"No, that was long before I arrived. Lindy brought in a bag of mail from Mexico. His wife lived near here at one time. I guess maybe that is why he came. It was only two years after he flew to France. There's lots of people still around that were here that day. He made a little speech and cut a ribbon.

"Amelia was beginning to be known in her own right, but Lindy was the real star. Sometimes I feel as though her spirit is still around. She took her flight test right here." The smile gave way to thin lips. "But for her I'd have never climbed into an aero plane. So sad, in the prime of life—39 years-old—and gone."

Her gaze drifted to a landing plane, following it touching down and bouncing along the runway. He guessed a memory bubbled up. Uncertain of what to say next he fidgeted nervously.

When the craft stopped the green eyes returned to him. "Of course, now there are women military pilots. Some are stationed right on this field."

He was finding this girl easy to talk to. With confidence budding he asked, "Are they part of the crew of the big bomber that flies out of here?"

"I don't think so. They only let the women make safe flights, like transport."

"The bomber is only doing tests, I've heard. That doesn't seem dangerous."

"The generals probably figure the project is too important for women to be involved with it. The word around here is that what they are working on will be a big factor in pounding Hitler and those other monsters to smithereens someday."

"You ever see it?"

"Not up close. They keep it over there." She pointed to a walled-in hangar at the other end of the field. "It goes out over the Gulf. You don't work out here at the field, do you?"

"Nope."

She took in his Levis and boots. "Are you a cowboy?"

"Kinda'." He did in fact work with cows.

"I've never ridden a horse."

"There's a lot of hard, hot work. Most of the time you're not in the saddle." He was never in "the saddle" since the ranch did not possess a single horse.

"Still, when you're on a horse it must be pretty exciting."

"I'd say what you do is pretty exciting."

"It can be. Have you ever been up in a plane?"

"Nope, but I'd love to go." He had no desire to risk his life in any airplane.

"If you're around someday when I've nothing to do, I'll take you for a ride."

"That'd be swell." Another falsehood brought increasing discomfort. He could not sit here and keep fibbing to such a nice young woman. "Well, I've got to be going." He stood not really wanting to leave but out of words.

"Hey, what's your name?"

"Mark. How about you?"

"Ask for Klare. Not that it matters but, its spelled K-L-A-R-E; not C-L-A-I-R-E, like you might expect. If I'm here, somebody around this hangar will know."

He biked back to town, upset with himself for rushing off. Klare was the first regular person he had chatted with since entering the internment camps. The last few months had been nothing but miserable, disgruntled men. She had been such a refreshing change, a lifeline to normalcy.

# Chapter 39

Midday sun roasted the garage apartment behind the mansion. Dangler, stripped to his undershorts, stretched on the hardwood floor of the apartment because it felt somewhat cooler than lying on the bed.

This morning, before speaking with Stark about snooping around the airport, he had dispatched Thael to the town's newspaper to place a cryptic classified advertisement. That would be the cue for the Mexican dissident, whom they expected to support the operation, to make contact.

The footfalls Dangler now heard on the stairs leading to the apartment would probably be Thael returning from the newspaper. Dangler got to his feet and flopped into a chair. A second later Thael stepped into the room.

"Mission accomplished, Willi?"

"You betcha.' The ad is going to show in this evening's edition."

"Good. Now we've got another matter to deal with. I must come up with a way to put Peter into contact with his brother, Jupp."

"I remember the name. He's the prisoner of war you were talking to Peter about?"

"That's the man."

Thael had overheard a conversation between he and Peter before they fled the internment camp and questioned him. At that time, not wanting to go into any detail, he had ignored Thael's questions.

"I kept you in the dark before because there wasn't a need for you to know. That has changed now. I'm going to explain why we must have Jupp with us."

"When the time came I was sure you'd tell me what was happening, Meister. I've suspected for a while that this exercise was more than just an escape. That's why I've hung on once we got free. It would have been safer if I had ditched the rest of you long ago."

"I think you'll be glad you stayed on when I tell you what I'm up to. But before I do I must have your pledge to keep these details from Stark. Mark knows some of what is going on, but not all of it. So keep it to yourself."

Thael agreed. He proceeded to brief him on the heist of the jet prototype. He sensed Thael's excitement swell as the scheme to spirit a war secret back to the Fatherland on a U-boat unfolded. The American-Nazi undoubtedly believed the obvious—this act would further Hitler's war aims.

The version he now related to Thael—the authentic plan—differed from what Stark had heard earlier. There had been no mention of transporting the stolen jet part to Germany when he spoke with Mark. He had continued to leave Stark with the impression that once the engine part had been stolen and hidden near Brownsville they intended to disappear into Mexico.

He ended the briefing by saying, "Jupp Oster is essential to the mission. Peter has the best chance of securing his participation. But the two men must meet so Peter can be sure Jupp will throw in with us before we risk staging a prison break to get him free. You got any ideas on how we might make that happen?"

"I guess that it would be too risky to try to infiltrate Peter into the prison?"

"Way too risky. One misstep and Peter would no doubt end up back in custody and in the process probably compromise then rest of us. Besides, they're not going to let civilians just stroll in for a visit."

"I've got it. We go in pretending we are from the Red Cross."

His opinion of the young Nazi's judgement—flawed by reckless jingoism—was reconfirmed.

"I'll break into the local Red Cross office and steal some uniforms," Thael said animatedly. "When we walk up to the gate wearing them, the guards are bound to let us in."

"Who are you talking about going inside the prison?"

That stumped Thael for a moment. "Since we can't use Peter, I'll have to go alone. I don't want 'lily livered' Stark along. He'd probably pee his pants if they looked at him too hard."

"You're forgetting that the objective is to put the two brothers, Peter and Jupp, face-to-face. Neither you nor Mark will have the same ability to persuade Jupp to join us as will Peter."

"The problem," Willi said, "is that once you're in a prison they never let you outside the walls. It seems we have to figure a way to meet with Jupp inside the prison."

"It's not always true—that POWs are always inside the prison. They do let them work in the farm fields." He had learned of that practice while reviewing records at the naval headquarters.

"So, we get Peter to follow his brother out to a farm. He talks to him there."

"Seems a little chancy to me. I'm sure they have guards watching the prisoners." He knew how tight security was in the POW camps back in Germany.

"How about we create an emergency? Then in the confusion Peter can speak to Jupp," Thael offered.

"That might be good idea for freeing Jupp once we know he's with us. Even so, I'd rather save that trick for when we are sure he wants to escape."

"I wonder if they might let them out for other reasons?" Thael stepped to the door, staring out in thought.

His mind began to grind, as well.

"They're probably like we were in New Mexico," Thael said. "They would have everything they need right inside the prison except—"

"A doctor." He finished Thael's thought.

In the Fort Stanton internment camp they visited the tuberculous hospital outside the confinement for medical treatment.

"Yeah." Thael thought a minute. "I'd bet in an out of the way place like this they use civilian doctors and dentists for treating the POWs."

He nodded. "It is my understanding that this is a small prison."

"They'd need German speaking doctors to communicate with our men."

"Good point, Willi. I think I'm beginning to get an idea."

"Me too," Thael ground his palms together.

"I don't see how we can get word to Jupp to fake a sickness. But if you can locate a doctor in town that speaks German, then my idea just might work?"

"If there's such a doctor, I'll find him."

"Here's what you do," he began. "Call the doctor and say you are from the POW camp. Tell them there's an inmate who needs to see a German-speaker and make an appointment. Then call the army post and tell the POW people that you are doctor so-and-so. Say it is time for Jupp Oster's follow-up visit and that he can come in at the appointment time you have just previously made."

Thael nodded. "I can pull that off."

"It's a long-shot but at least we haven't compromised anyone if they don't fall for it." He lacked he fascist's chauvinistic optimism.

"If it doesn't work, we'll just have to gin up another idea, Meister."

"All right, Willi, why don't you get about trying to arrange it? Just stay cool if things aren't working out exactly as we've discussed."

Thael returned about an hour later smiling. "The appointment's all set. The first doc I called said he didn't treat prisoners. Then I found this name in the telephone directory—a Doctor Siegfried Meier. The nurse said they could see Jupp tomorrow."

"Perfect. You did a good job on this, Willi, but don't go getting a big head, yet. We've still got to get Peter and Jupp face-to-face."

"On my way back here I was thinking about that. I wasn't sure if you had a plan in mind."

"I have some ideas. How about you?"

It took but a few minutes to concoct the script. He did have to dissuade Thael from insisting on the starring part. The Hitlerite might overplay the role, or pull something rash if the charade fell apart. He also knew that Stark was incapable of carrying out the drama. Top billing would fall on his shoulders.

Nonetheless, he was elated by developments. Confirming that Jupp was, indeed, held in the Brownsville camp validated a significant gamble. After the uncertain beginning when he had fallen into enemy hands the mission was getting back on track.

To minimize Thael's disappointment that he would not be included in tomorrow's performance at the doctor's office, Dangler sent him off to learn anything he could about activities at the water port. This was in all likelihood only back up intelligence. If the mission worked as he planned, it would not be necessary to steal a boat from a local fisherman. He did, nevertheless, want to be prepared if that became the only way to obtain a craft. When it came to sizing up a situation involving a theft, Thael was the man.

Not long after Thael set off for the port Stark returned to the apartment, stating that he had visited the airfield.

"So how did it go, Mark?"

"All right, I guess." The voice was flat, barely audible.

"What's going on out there?"

"What they told you is true. They've got a bomber here. Things are pretty hush-hush. But this girl pilot I talked to said people think what they are working on is a big deal."

"Did you get a good look at the plane?"

"Nope. It's off by itself, with a wall around it."

"What else did you learn?"

"That's about all."

"Mark!" His hands flew up, the fingers splayed. "You spent most of the day out at the airfield and that's what you come back with? Thael's already handled two assignments. He's out again on a third."

"If Thael's such a hotshot let him do it!" Mark pivoted towards the door.

"Sorry," he hurriedly apologized. "What I said was wrong. You are not Thael. That's why I need you so much."

Stark stopped but continued to stare out the door.

"It sounds like you've made a good contact."

Still not looking at him, Stark said, "The girl I mentioned—she offered to take me up in her airplane."

"I think you should do it." A bird's eye view of the area would be helpful.

"I'll go first thing tomorrow morning," Stark said evenly.

"Why not wait a day? That will make it seem more natural."

Stark's eager response caused him to wondered if there was something other then espionage on the young man's mind. A romantic interest might test Mark's loyalty. He would watch and wait, hold onto to the information that would surely bond Stark to the mission, should the man waver.

# Chapter 40

Approximately thirty minutes before prisoner Jupp's appointment with Doctor Meier, Dangler and Jupp's brother, Peter, loitered across the street from the main gate of Fort Brown. Dangler worried that much could go wrong with the suppositious visit Thael had arranged.

Soldiers and a few civilian tradesmen passed through the checkpoint from time to time. Then a soldier and a prisoner stepped out and headed down Brownsville's main street.

"Is that Jupp?" he asked.

"Oh God," Peter wagged his head. "I can't say. He was a kid when last I saw him."

"Timing is right. We'll know soon enough," he said, as they fell into step a safe distance behind.

Ahead the two men strolled casually along the sidewalk chatting. Except for the fact one wore a blue shirt with the white letters "P W" stenciled across the back they might have been pals going off for lunch.

Midway along the second block the soldier and his charge entered Doctor Meier's clinic, which Dangler had previously scouted. A minute later he and Peter ambled past the glass-fronted office, glancing inside. A nurse worked at a desk. The POW and his escort sat in the waiting area. Two minutes later Dangler strolled by again. After looking in a window, he turned back and nodded deeply at Peter—the signal the patient had apparently been shown into an examining room. The escort remained in the waiting room reading a newspaper.

Next, Peter entered the office. After waiting about 15 seconds, so it would appear they were not together, he opened the door and glanced in. Peter was across the waiting room at the nurse's station. He lurched into the waiting area, then slumped to the floor, pretending to faint.

Footfalls sounded. "Are you OK, sir?" a woman, undoubtedly the nurse, inquired.

He feigned unconsciousness.

"Doctor! Doctor Meier! Come quick a man's just passed out here in the waiting room," the woman called loudly.

A newspaper rustled, a chair creaked. Lying with a cheek on the floor, he cracked open an eyelid. A pair of military boots came into view. "What do you think has happened to him, ma'am?"

The performance had drawn the guard's attention as well. Then ponderous feet jarred the floorboards.

"Vat's going on here, Nurse?'

"I don't know, doctor. This man just stepped in here. The next thing I know he's collapsed."

"Here, you two, help me turn him over," Doctor Meier ordered.

Three sets of hands rolled him on to his back.

"Get some smelling salts, Miss Peevey."

A finger probed for his pulse. He remained inert, breathing shallowly.

Moments later he heard the nurse return. Then the attar of ammonia exploded near his nostrils. He stifled the urge to jump up but the substance's toxic bite lifted his head off the floor. His eyes opened to a trio of anxious faces. He rolled his head around, pretending to seek fresh air while noting Peter had, as planned, slipped from the waiting area into the back of the suite during the diversion.

"Gutt, that has brought him around. Are you doing better?" the white-coated doctor asked.

He bought time for the Oster brothers' reunion by feigning another swoon. The reapplication of the stimulant soon aborted that ploy. He pushed the nurse's hand from his nose. "Better now."

Meier pulled a stethoscope from a pocket and placed it against his chest. "Heart seems normal enough," the doctor remarked after listening.

During the next few moments he affected a measured recovery. The others helped him into a chair. The nurse fetched a glass of water. The soldier cooled him with a palm frond fan.

In their shared language of German, Meier asked about his presence in Brownsville. He unreeled a fabricated story of immigrating to Mexico from Germany and now working for a Mexican company doing business in the US. He speculated that a bout of food poisoning had caused the loss of consciousness.

To elongate their conversation he held forth on the appalling state of sanitation south of the border. Following that, he ran through a list of an imaginary diet he had supposedly consumed in prior days, often engaging the physician in speculation if a specific item might have been the cause of his ailment.

Eventually Meier asked if he felt well enough to be on his way. He staggered to his feet before dropping back into the chair, pretending to be light headed. The doctor suggested he recuperate for a while longer. When Meier patted his shoulder and began excusing himself, he engaged in profuse thanks, questioning how much he might pay for the care. The physician refused any fee. Stretching his performance to the limit, he eventually stood, wobbling out onto the street.

Later Peter reported to Dangler concerning his activities during the episode.

"When you hit the floor in the doctor's office, I had been questioning the nurse about an appointment with Meier. The nurse rushed to your aid. I went to the door leading from the waiting room.

"With all eyes focused on you, I slipped through it and into a hall filled with doors. The first was an empty examining room. The next a supply closet. I heard the nurse calling for the doctor. I went into the supply closet. I heard him go by and out into the front area. In the third room I found our man wearing the prisoner of war shirt and sitting on a wooden examining table, legs dangling off the side. In the time since we had glimpsed him on the street, I'd become convinced we were brothers.

"I asked if he knew me. He was nodding slowly, searching his memory. Then suddenly the recognition dawned. He came off the examining table and we hugged each other. In a few words I told him we had come to free him, that we needed him to help in a mission for the Fatherland. Jupp started questioning me about what we are up to. I didn't give him any details—just said it was very important to the war effort. He says he's with us.

"Next, we talked about an escape. As we hoped he does work in the farm fields some days. I said we'll come for you. When the moment arrives, you'll know it. Don't hesitate, just make your break. I'll be waiting. Just you—no one else—so keep quiet. Then we shook hands and I stepped out. At the back end of the hall I spied a door leading outside and left the clinic."

# Chapter 41

At eight o'clock on the minute, Harvey Black strode into the office of Special Agent Jerome Couzzins in Brownsville. Yesterday, shortly after arriving in town, he had arranged this meeting by telephone.

The FBI man sat behind a pristine desk wearing a navy blue suit and dark necktie. A white felt Stetson topped his head. When the agent stood and reached across the desk to shake hands, he decided Couzzins must have once been athletic. Now middle age had added a taut paunch to his belly. Couzzins wore a face lined from years in the Texas sun.

A hint of "Evening in Paris" perfume wafted off the agent. A lifetime of cigarettes had taken their toll on Black's lungs. The smokes had not tarnished an exquisite sense of smell. Moments earlier he had opened the door to the FBI offices and introduced himself to a secretary—an attractive, young blond in a tight dress. A veil of the same scent had surrounded her. Couzzins and the secretary had been embracing at some point before his arrival; an indiscretion he filed away for potential future use if his furtive pursuit ever ran afoul of the authorities here.

His journey to this border city came after an intermediate stop in San Antonio. There he had learned of an incident in the rail switching yard about the time the fugitives might have arrived. The train involved had traveled south to this area.

The decision to follow that train was based primarily on presumption. He recognized that ego drove him. Coupled with renewed anger at Nazis—resulting from whatever misfortune had befallen his missing airman nephew—he accepted that a lust for revenge had become elemental.

Lawmen were territorial creatures, a trait he understood and accepted. He must, at the least, "clear-in" with some local official before hitting the streets and questioning citizens. This need to be sanctioned as a legitimate lawman had motivated this visit with the FBI. He would stay away from the local Border Patrol unit because that might lead to contact with his home office if someone here felt he was encroaching on their turf. The FBI, because of their overarching authority, was the ideal alternative.

After pleasantries Couzzins asked. "So what can I do for you? You didn't provide any details when you called."

He produced his badge for authentication. "I'm down from the El Paso Sector on a matter. I wanted to stop by—let you know what's going on."

"What's up?"

"We've had an escape from an internment camp. There's reason to believe the trail leads here."

"So, you're temporarily attached to the local BP office here?" Couzzins asked.

"Not at this point."

"Is that normal procedure for you folks—to chase 'scooters' halfway across the country?"

"This is an unusual situation. Hopefully, I will be able to put the local guys on to them," he fibbed.

Couzzins cocked a wary eye.

He imagined the FBI man did not want to become involved in another organization's politics if it might result in any diminution of cooperative efforts among the Brownsville law enforcers. He would need to ease that concern by rolling out the embellishment he had rehearsed.

"Here's the background," he began. "The chief inspector, who oversees the camp these fugitives came from, is in the running for a big promotion. Of course, he's got competition from colleagues seeking the same job.

"He has filed all the required reports up the chain of command about the escape. Normally, other than trying to recover the prisoners, that would be the end of it.

"This situation is a little different. These are 'hard cases' from a special camp set up for radical Nazis. There is a slight chance they might take a parting shot at some American institution on their way out of the country. There had been some 'jail-house' talk from them to that effect before they fled. They did say they were going back to Germany."

"You talking sabotage?" Couzzins leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk.

"More like something just to embarrass us. Possibly a little act to say, 'we're free, we gotcha!''"

"Just what are you talking about?" Couzzins seemed alarmed.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe a Nazi flag hoisted over a government office. Or a swastika painted on a building with the men taking credit for it."

Couzzins frowned.

He hurried on. "To make any type of statement is a long shot, in all likelihood. Why would fugitives want to attract attention to themselves? That being said, my boss is in a tight spot. He wants to avoid any notoriety that might mar his chances for promotion. I'm here because he knows that I will be focused only on rounding up these Nazis. If I succeed it will be good for my career, too."

This fictional rationale for trailing the fugitives so far from New Mexico had evolved last night.

"If they've already made it out of the country then it's an unfortunate escape, but no real harm done. My chief is hoping against hope that they've disappeared into Mexico never to be heard from again."

Ironically, what he had initially seized on as an excuse for coming here—petty sabotage—now seemed a distant possibility, once he had declared it aloud. If the men wanted to flee the country why travel here, rather than slipping out through El Paso? The notion that the fugitives might be involved in espionage now added to his woe.

"What can you tell me about these characters?"

"There are four men," he began, going on to brief Couzzins with the barest of descriptions and background information. He concluded with, "Any reports of such a group?"

"Nothing comes to mind. Probably want to check in with the fellows at the local BP office."

"Yeah, I'll be doing that." He had no intention of going anywhere near that facility. "Anything out of the ordinary crop up in the past few days?"

"Maybe you can be more specific. We have any number of concerns. The border is worrisome, as you well know. Anything can come across from the south. The seaport is another high-security area with ships from all over the world coming and going. Then there's all the activities out at the airport."

"I am aware of the first two, but what's going on out at the air field?"

Couzzins paused a moment, as if deciding something. Then he spoke.

"Secret weapons development. I wouldn't bring the subject up but I'm the 'lone eagle' in this office—no one else permanent in all of South Texas except a man up in Corpus Christi. There is way too much for me to cover alone. I have to depend on 'sister' policing organizations to keep me abreast of developments.

"That brings me to you, Officer Black. I've just told you what I consider to be the areas of greatest potential threats. If you are out and about and run across anything of a security nature, even if it doesn't concern these escaped prisoners, I'll expect you to report it to me first."

"Certainly, that's my duty," he assured. "From my end, I'd be most obliged if you could vouch for me should someone ask why I'm here, what I'm up to."

Couzzins nodded. That satisfied Black. The meeting had achieved his aims. With the FBI agent confirming his legitimacy here, it should short-circuit any inquiries from local law enforcement reaching New Mexico.

Hopefully, the proper tone between a concern over a petty act of spite and actual sabotage had been set. Nevertheless, he now had unspoken worries that the Nazis might have more sinister aims. He had secured Couzzins' cooperation and established a relationship, as well. Depending on circumstances, he would keep Couzzins informed of his activities to the extent they did not endanger his off-the-record status. He quickly wrapped up the interview and exited the office.

# Chapter 42

"I heard you were looking for me," Klare said as she approached Mark from behind.

Startled, he pivoted around to face her.

"I guess so," he stammered, his sky blue eyes squinting into the sun.

"Whatcha' up to?" She had spied him studying the distant enclosure housing the B-29 bomber.

"Nothing much," he smiled sheepishly.

"Just kill'in time?" She found his gentle manner inviting.

"I was wondering," he bounced on the balls of his feet, "if you knew anyone who might need a carpenter?"

Upon her arrival at the airport, she had learned that a fellow was waiting for her. She suspected it was Mark. They had chatted briefly two days ago. Something had clicked between them.

There was no question that avoiding the winsome American would be the better course of action. Unfortunately, after speaking with him two days ago the starkness of her social deprivation sparked another bout of bitter despair. Such episodes occasionally haunted her. Spending some time with him might lift the darkness.

Mark seemed "safe." They could meet at the airport. He did not need to know her personal situation. A handsome young man to keep company with from time to time seemed an ideal balm. After learning Mark had asked after her, she had ignored her cautions and went looking for him.

"You work as a carpenter?"

"Kinda." He said billing a palm to shield his eyes from the midday glare.

"So you're kinda a carpenter and kinda a cowboy?" she joshed.

"More of a carpenter, at the moment—I used to live and work on a small ranch."

"No longer?"

"I'd heard there are jobs here, so I came on down. Haven't gotten much work yet. How about you? Are you busy with the flying every day?"

"The dusting work is slow now because of the season."

"Crop dusting? Wow. I've seen them swooping down barely missing trees and wires, then spinning back around to do it again. You must be an expert."

"You've got to be low so the fertilizer and insecticides don't blow all over the place."

"That kind of flying is pretty dangerous, I'd suspect?"

"Yes, and no. Best thing is to do a lot of it. That keeps you sharp." She basked in his admiring gaze, following her cavalier dismissal of the danger.

"I've seen newspaper pictures of planes whose wheels had clipped power lines. Seems they usually crash upside down, don't they? Or nose over and end up buried in a furrow?"

"That does happen, but not often. You figure out where the dangers are before you start. You can usually pick them out from above. Things look so different up there. It's hard to explain, but once in the air you'd see what I mean."

A stricken look crossed Mark's face, he glanced skyward. She wondered if he was hunting for storm clouds, or any other excuse to turn her down, if she asked him to go aloft.

"Those turns look scary," he said." It looks like what would happen on a roller coaster ride, but there's no track up there for the airplane to stay on."

"I never make steep turns like that with a passenger aboard."

"Oh."

"I've had a recent adjustment made to the rigging and was planning on checking it out. Want to ride along?"

He stared skyward several beats. After exhaling a deep breath, he nodded.

"That'd be swell." His glum response betrayed a lack of enthusiasm.

"The work they did on the bird—it's not a critical safety matter, so don't worry about that." She wanted to reassure him, make the experience enjoyable.

"I see."

"What are we standing here for? Let's get going." She pushed onward, hoping the flight might be the seed of a friendship.

A step ahead, Klare led him towards a yellow biplane that waited near a hanger. He watched as she circled the fabric-covered machine, carefully examining its skin and testing the hinges on wings and tail. The upper part of the engine was exposed revealing steel cylinders served by copper tubing. A radiator hung below the upper wing.

"Who built the airplane?" His trust that Klare was not some reckless barnstormer grew as he watched her checking the machine.

"It's a Waco 9." She peeked into a fuel tank and then pulled a dipstick from the motor's crankcase, eyeing the oil level. "It'll take me a second to get her ready to start. An OX 5 engine is cranky."

She stepped up on the wing and pulled a wooden rod from the front cockpit. From her practiced hand each of the sixteen valves on top of the eight cylinders received a brisk tap.

"They have a tendency to stick between flights," she explained.

The wand went back inside the airplane and a canvass bag came out. She oiled each of the valves. Next all the rocker arms received a shot of grease from a hand grease gun. She opened fuel valves and drained each of the four carburetor fuel filter bowls.

"We're just about ready. I'm going to wash my hands and find a lineman to 'prop' us."

A few minutes later a man wearing an oil-stained duster trailed her back to the Waco.

"Hop up here," she tapped the trailing edge of the lower wing indicating where he should step. "Then climb in the front seat. I'll strap you in."

He followed her instruction, surprised at the roomy cockpit. It contained a bench seat wide enough to hold two passengers. Now aboard his anxiety ticked up. Too late he felt the urge to make water. Misgivings faded temporarily in her closeness as she threaded a safety belt about his waist.

"Oops, I forgot your goggles." Klare leaned into the cockpit and fished between his legs, retrieving a pair of leather and glass lenses from under the seat.

Behind him, she wormed into the rear position.

"That little cup by your shoulder is called a gosport. It lets us talk back and forth. It's connected by a tube to another one back here. Put your ear near it."

He tilted his head against the funnel-shaped device.

"If you want to say something just speak into it," Klare's words echoed in his ear. "But wait till we're airborne. I'm about to get busy."

The mechanic stood by the nose. Klare and the man exchanged a few commands he did not understand. The fellow reached up and grabbed the end of the wooden prop with both hands. He rotated it several turns. As he did, Mark heard a slight moan emanating from the engine, guessing it was the cylinders compressing.

She barked another command. The man swung the propeller downward while backing away, allowing him to extend the leverage towards the end of the stroke. Black smoke boiled from the exhaust located just forward of the cockpit as the engine caught.

Soon the machine rolled ahead zigzagging towards the runway. The upwardly tilted nose blocked their view straight ahead, thus requiring the jinking. The pedals and stick before him moved in unison as Klare positioned them from the rear controls.

Upon reaching the pavement she goosed the motor. Every bolt in the machine seemed to rattle. He noted numerous changes in the engine's sound. After several seconds she must have released the brakes because the machine began accelerating. With increasing speed the tail rotated up leveling the craft and allowing him a view ahead.

They hurtled down the runway, jittering left then right. Suddenly they sailed above the pavement. The jarring ended, replaced by a gentle buffeting. Wind whistled through the wings' guy wires.

In a grassy area out the right side a huge sign large enough to read from the air proclaimed "PAN AMERICAN AIRLINES inc" the line below read BROWNSVILLE."

The earth fell away. The horizon expanded. Regardless of the direction he glanced a quilt of green and brown fields stitched together with seams of brush stretched into the distance. They passed above vast orchards from time to time.

Faintly, her voice emerged from the gosport. He leaned close to it.

"That's Mexico over there on our right."

A stream—the color of Oma's coffee after she poured milk in it—wriggled across the checkerboard below. The Waco banked east towards a hazy blue horizon. Ahead a towering cloud bubbled skyward. Klare avoided its robe of grey rain.

The airplane racketed along. The jolts reminded him of a ride across their fields in the old pickup. He grew less guarded, beginning to appreciate the expanding perspective. Things did appear different when viewed from above, he had to agree.

Below the cultivated fields thinned, replaced by a desert. A broad canal scarred the sand. The waterway terminated amongst a cluster of buildings. These warehouses backed on to docks. A couple of freighters lay alongside the wharves.

"What's that?" he asked, then plastered an ear against the speaking funnel.

"It's the seaport. That wide area is the turning basin. Tugboats spin the ships around so they can go back down the channel to the ocean."

"How deep is it?"

"I'm not sure. I think I heard twenty-five, or thirty feet."

"Can we go look at the sea? I've never seen it before." That was true and he was curious. Moreover, Dangler had told him to find out what he could about the area.

"Sure, it's only about 17 miles down to the jetties."

"What are those?"

"They're a kind of barrier that keeps the sand from drifting across the entrance where the waterway meets the Gulf."

They flew in silence for several minutes until reaching the long wooden structures that stretched out into the waves. After the plane crossed the shore they turned north.

"The ocean is beautiful." He gaped at the water hazing into sky at the horizon. "I had no idea it would be so blue—just like the pictures."

"That's Padre Island below us. There are only a few hotels and restaurants on it."

He turned his gaze from the distance, staring down. A few buildings dotted a sandy island beach. "How does anyone get out there, I don't see any bridges?"

"By boat."

They banked left, heading west across a bay separating the island from the mainland.

"Bomber crews train here," she pointed over the cockpit coaming. "That's another Army Air Corps field."

As they flew above this airport he decided there were certainly enough army personnel—at a fort and two military airfields—to protect the thing Dangler was after. There were possibly enough men to dissuade the Germans from doing anything at all. That lent a degree of relief about the Nazi's planned actions.

How had he got embroiled in this treason? The chain of events began with Opa's arrest. Then Oma went into the camp. The ranch shut. His internment—under questionable circumstances came next. His anger and frustration with the government had caused him to make a big mistake. He should never have joined Dangler in the break out. Once a participant in the escape, he had determined the best course was to speed the Nazis on their way to Mexico by aiding them. Now he found himself spying on his government!

Klare interrupted his brooding.

"Let's head back. I'll fly you over the town."

After circling over Brownsville she landed. With the engine ticking as it cooled down, they squeezed between the crisscrossing rigging wires, then stood on firm earth. An old Ford TT truck with a wooden cab and a large red tank on the rear drove up to gas the plane.

# Chapter 43

With the Waco's fueling complete, and for reasons only her hormones fathomed, Klare asked Mark to share a Dr. Pepper. Relaxing in the shade of a tree, their backs against the trunk, it appeared to her that his spirits had lightened. The tension he seemingly experienced before going aloft had apparently dissipated.

"How is it that you can just go flying like that? Do you own that airplane?"

"No, I rent it from a man here on the field."

"He let's you take it up any time you want?"

"Usually I have a job—delivering rush packages, or crop dusting."

"Let me pay you something for the ride." Mark reached for his hip pocket.

"I don't want your money. That was on me. I love showing people the thrill of flight."

In the distance she heard pops, like a series of gunshots, then an aircraft engine roared to life. The B-29 was starting up.

"Hey, Mark, you're going to get a treat. They're firing up the bomber you asked about. Let's go see what's going on."

They scrambled up and moved to a point where they could see the silver-skinned craft. It had been towed from the hangar and beyond the privacy enclosure.

An outboard engine on one wing was spinning. On the other wing a group of men pulled the four blades of a second engine through to prime it for starting. Then the team moved back. An airman with a fire extinguisher stood by. The propeller rotated slowly. Suddenly more backfires banged as the engine fired, belching a cloud of oily exhaust beneath the wing.

As they watched the final two Wright Cyclones windmilled to life. The Boeing crept forward, turning and taxing in their direction.

"That's the biggest airplane I've ever seen," Mark stared. "How can it get in the air?"

"There is tremendous power in those engines. I've never understood how to compare 'horsepower' very well. It's something about the energy it takes a horse to lift some amount of weight one foot, I think. Anyway, that machine has the equivalent of nearly 8,500 horses, I suppose one might say."

"How big are those motors?"

"There's 18 cylinders inside each one." As the B-29 rolled by she had to shout above the racket. "That glass in the lower part of the nose is for the bombardier. The windows above are for the pilots."

Mark shook his head in apparent disbelief.

"I've been told that there are three sets of engine controls. They take an engineer aboard with them. He starts the motors, handles the throttles during takeoff and climb. The pilot and copilot do the actual flying."

"What is so secret about this airplane? I heard it was something about the engines. Are they the ones we're looking at now?"

"You can't even see the engine they are testing. It's inside the airplane."

Mark scrunched his face signaling he did not understand.

"The whole middle part of the airplane is normally where they carry the bombs. A man who works for Pan American—in the shop—said they have rigged up the engine inside. It rides in a carriage in the bomb bay. They climb up to 20 or 30,000 feet and open the bomb bay doors. Then an elevator-type mechanism lowers the engine into the slip stream."

"That's the airflow?"

"Yes. They fly with jet beneath the airplane. That way they can start it up and run it. They have a lot of instruments attached to it. There's all sorts of engineers taking readings, so I hear."

"Why do they need to go to all this trouble?"

"When you fly that high engines perform differently than here on the ground. There's not much oxygen up there."

"That airplane must be huge inside."

"It is. There's two bomb bays. In combat they carry tons of explosives plus a crew of eleven men."

The behemoth was now pulling out onto the runway, the pre-flight test run of the motors complete.

She watched as the engines came up to full power and the plane began to roll, imagining herself at the controls "standing" the throttles upright to fuel the engines. The bomber wavered from the runway centerline, then corrected. She had read that in big airplanes such as the B-29 the crew had to "walk" the craft in a straight line by using the engines. Adding power on one side would turn the bomber.

Considering the expansive vertical tail fin, she found it odd they could not control direction with the rudder. That is how she tracked down the runway in the little "tail-dragger" she flew.

After what appeared to be an inordinately long takeoff run the B-29 nose wheel lifted from the pavement. Seconds later the plane pushed the earth away and climbed straight ahead. After gaining speed then altitude, it arced left in the direction of the Gulf of Mexico.

"Where are they going?"

"That's the way they always head. I'm guessing they fly out over the water and do the work there."

"No worries about safety or security once they leave our shore?"

"I doubt they worry. Look at all these airplanes," she waved an arm around. "We have civilian airplanes patrolling along the shore, too. Then there is also a blimp around to keep an eye on things. They moor it up at a little airport north of here in the town of San Benito."

"And the bomber stays in the hangar at night?"

"I suppose so."

"It's probably got several guards around it, huh?"

"Probably."

"Have you ever seen it up close?"

"No, I'm only repeating things that people talk about when I'm out here."

"How did you learn to fly, anyway?"

"I took lessons."

"From the man who owns the airplane?"

"Someone else."

"Was that here?"

She handed him the soda bottle. "I've got to run."

Mark's forehead wrinkled. "I've said something that bothered you, haven't I?"

"Not at all. I'd love to talk longer but I can't."

"Can I walk you somewhere?"

"I've got to meet someone. . . It's about a flying job. I almost forgot about it."

"I hope I see you soon."

"You bet. We'll go up again if you'd like." She eased away.

"I don't want you spending money on airplane gas. Maybe we can just go for a walk."

"I'd like that. You know where to find me," she said waving over her shoulder.

As she turned the hangar's corner, a sideward's glance revealed him pedaling away on a bicycle. He had, apparently, accepted the excuse that she had someone to see. The questions had become excessively personal, the grilling about the bomber worrisome.

She ducked into a store room, shrugged out of the flying suit, and into a blouse and slacks. To blend in with the crowd she normally wore street clothes to and from the airfield.

# Chapter 44

Black departed FBI agent Couzzins' office where he had made his presence and purpose for being in Brownsville known. The meeting had gone well.

With no particular plan in mind, he decided to survey the town. The community could give him some notion of where his targets might hide, if they were even here. After driving through several neighborhoods, he eventually found himself skirting the airport.

The base pulsed with activity. A continuous stream of aircraft seemed to be taking off and landing. Hangars and barracks sprouted from what appeared to have been previously farmed fields. Like ants, uniformed service personnel marched here and there.

After parking the Studebaker in the midst of the bustle, he set off on foot to explore. Shortly thereafter the rumble of large engines echoed. He hustled in the direction of the sound. A huge bomber—undoubtedly one of the B-29s the newspapers wrote about—lumbered towards a runway. The takeoff, and climb out was awing.

The airship had come from the direction of a large hangar situated within a metal-walled security fence. A hangar roof peeked above the barrier. Even with two obstacles to overcome, might a determined saboteur gain access?

Earlier he had driven past the terminal building which lay in the civilian portion of the base. He walked there. The building was of Spanish design, a theme that continued in the cool masonry lobby where an airline clerk stood behind a counter fumbling with a stack of ticket vouchers. Two porters napped on baggage carts. With the interior nearly deserted he decided to investigate a brace of nearby hangars.

Once outside the dark hall, he squinted into a blinding sun. He stepped into the roadway just as a bicycle streaked by, nearly causing a collision. Angry, he glared after the man. Something about the narrow hips and the blond hair blowing in the wind struck a cord of familiarity.

Damn! That might be Mark Stark. Double damn! The Champion was parked several blocks away. He bellowed an order to halt. The cyclist rushed on, never looking back.

He broke into a jog towards the automobile but soon gave up. The rider had disappeared. If it had been Stark, by the time he got moving the escaped prisoner would probably be off the main road, lost among the numerous byways branching from it.

In frustration, he wandered back towards the civilian hangars. Ahead a young, redheaded woman dressed in a white blouse and brown slacks walked his way.

When they met he asked, "Do you work here?"

At the words her downcast head jerked up.

He repeated the question.

She hesitated. "No, not really."

The equivocal response was a surprise. "What does that mean? Either you do, or you do not, have a job here, miss." After the fact, he regretted the strident tone.

"I used to." Her eyes turned away, following a departing airplane for several seconds before she continued. "But the work ran out. I keep checking in, but there's nothing for me."

The foreign accent—northern European but tinted with a certain Latin tang—was intriguing, even though the border regions did contain an eclectic mix of inflections. He considered asking for identification, which she might or might not have in her possession.

Aliens, draft-aged males, service personnel, vehicle operators all carried some from of documentation. That left many—women in particular—not needing papers to legally walk about. Pressing too hard as an interrogator might terminate any hope of obtaining forthright answers to his questions.

"Have you seen a group of strange men hanging around?"

"No."

At that moment several males emerged from a taxi near the terminal entrance. One of them was tall and thin, one balding, another burly. He recalled the makeup of the 'Fort Stanton Four,' as he had come to think of them.

Forgetting the woman, he hustled towards the men. They were settling the fare with the driver when he reached them. They chatted amongst themselves in perfect English. On closer examination none were the escapees he sought.

When Black turned around the redhead had vanished. That struck him as suspicious, but he accepted that his style of interviewing bordered on the inquisitorial. He had probably appeared too overbearing for comfort. Still, would an innocent person run off?

Returning to the hangars Black found a fellow in greasy overalls sprawled on a creeper inspecting the tail wheel of a small biplane.

"I've got a question." He spoke to the mechanic in his usual authoritative voice.

"Watcha' need." The man glanced up from his prone position.

"I'm not in uniform, but I'm with the Border Patrol. I'm looking for a stranger—he'd be relatively new around here. Just showed up within the past few days. That ring a bell?"

"Ain't seen no new Mesicans—just the usual ones that's working around here every day."

"The guy I'm after is not a Mexican. He'd be a young American kid. Early twenties. Slim, curly blond hair. Might be getting around on a bike."

He had added the last information based upon his near collision with the cyclist. An open-ended question would have been better. Too many specifics often smothered a witness' imagination. Anyone who did much investigating soon learned that what a trained lawman viewed as physical characteristics and what a bystander reported were often at variance.

"Sorry, can't say as I've seen anyone like that."

The bile rising in Klare's gorge turned to vomit, nearly gagging her.

She turned away, concentrating on a departing plane, and managed to swallow back the acid. After that she was able to answer the man, who was dressed in a business suit and wore flashy cowboy boots. He seemed to sense the lie about her employment status.

At that point the man's eyes drifted away. The next moment he bolted towards the entrance to the terminal. She rushed off, going around the opposite side of the building. There—near where Pan American airlines disembarked passengers—were several sheds used to shelter airport ground equipment. She entered one of them, watching through its cracked door. Eventually the fellow returned from the front of the terminal and walked over to the hangar where the Waco slept.

She fretted over what might transpire when the questioner spoke with the airplane owner, Max Moore. In a panic, she ducked around the far side of the terminal. A taxi waited on the drive for a fare. She darted up and leaped into the back seat. Fortunately, a few dollars stayed tucked in her brassiere for just such an emergency.

On the drive into town, she checked out the back window to insure no vehicles trailed. A few blocks from her room she exited the cab and walked a circuitous route the rest of the way.

Stretched on the bed she pondered the encounter. The fellow had posed a rather innocuous question. She had handled the situation poorly. Her demeanor had seemingly raised his interest because he bored in. After the interruption he appeared to return, searching for her or someone. The man's behavior was disquieting.

A thought suddenly rattled her. Were Mark and the stranger in the cowboy boots somehow tied together?

A part of her regretted ever running into Mark. Before he happened along the loneliness had been mostly manageable—with a bad spell every so often when thoughts of her parents and their shattered family dominated. The time with Mark reminded her of what living was supposed to be about.

Nevertheless, taking him flying—showing off with a handsome young man was what it really was—had been foolish. Hadn't she learned anything from the disastrous consequences of her father's pretentiousness?

She pondered Mark's questions about the bomber. Had he merely made conversation about a topic he knew held her interest as a pilot?

The engine project was certainly secret, but the details she had related were whispered about the airport. It was the kind of information that slipped out to the public owing to the numerous people involved.

Many of those working with the bomber were civilians. The military personnel assigned to the project lived in the community, not on a restricted base. The features and performance facts about the B-29 she had mentioned were available to people who cared enough to study public news reports.

Moreover, pilots enthralled with aviation had done their research—eager to learn about an aircraft they witnessed operating in and out of their home airfield on a daily basis. What she had repeated to Mark he could have learned from many others on the field.

That rationalization, nevertheless, did not assuage a pang of disquiet that was enveloping her. After viewing such an airship, anyone would be curious. The interest, on the other hand, that he had shown in the details of a classified weapon was another matter. Of course, she must acknowledge that human nature prompted certain people to probe secrets.

Yet, his manner seemed motivated by a purpose rather than a desire to gossip. In retrospect his absorption with the Brownsville Port and ship channel—he had seemed more focused on that subject then the nature of their flight—added to her concerns.

Conflicting reasons for such behavior crept into her head. Upon their initial meeting she had wondered why a fit young man such as he was not in uniform? There could be any number of causations—health, or a war-critical civilian skill among them. But concerning the latter, he did not seem to be employed.

On the other hand, what if he was involved in serving his country, albeit working undercover for some type of national security organization?

She immediately thought of the "Special Defense Unit," a part of the US Justice Department. That organization had been at the heart of the Fischreiher family's trouble. After investigating her father and finding him "dangerous," this agency had convinced the Costa Rican government to deport the three of them to America where they had been incarcerated.

If Mark did work for the SDU, maybe she had said something that raised his suspicions? He would certainly have recognized her German heritage. Had she mentioned a connection to Latin America? Persons with such a background were clearly under suspicion.

When his inquiries focused on her path to piloting, she felt he had turned into an interrogator, aiming to pry out details of her past life. Wary, she had broken off the conversation. Only moments later the man in western boots was questioning her. Were Mark and the other man working together as a team?

While still unsettled, the panic had dwindled. She picked up a recently published mystery-novel, "Farewell, My Lovely," by Raymond Chandler, which diverted her for a few hours before turning in.

Once the light was off, her mind returned to the dilemma. Was Mark a threat to her, or a threat to the United States? If it was the former, she needed to flee. If it was the latter, should she act by warning the authorities?

By morning she had resolved that the responsible course of action was to alert the government about her suspicions concerning Mark. But how could she do that without drawing the attention of the authorities?

It was one thing to be around town, blending in with the "Braceros" from Mexico who were welcomed in because they filled jobs vacated by people who had joined the military, or went away to work in defense plants. It was quite another to seek out the police and speak to them about suspected espionage when one was herself a fugitive.

She briefly considered going to Mr. Tittselsey, the patron who bought the fish she hauled. He was a prominent community leader with whom she was acquainted He would get the message to the proper persons. In the end, she was not secure enough in her assessment of the situation to trust him. The alert would have to come in an anonymous note.

From the lobby of the El Jardin Hotel, she pilfered a sheet of letterhead. After tearing off the identifying logo, she printed the following message in block letters:

Guard the secret work at the airport.

The page she folded in half, addressing it to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Traffic was brisk at the US Post Office, which was lodged in the Federal Court House on Elizabeth Street. She walked to the collection slot for outgoing mail and slipped the page through.

No sooner was the note out of her hand than she began to question the action. What if Mark was merely a curious person, or a shy man wishing to extend a conversation with a woman he might have an interest in? Had her actions unleashed an overbearing government on an innocent citizen? How would he react if he found out she had erroneously believed him to be a traitor?

A fondness for Mark was certainly complicating her life. Would she be agonizing over the warning if he were not close to her age, comely, and an American? The last item was better forgotten.

Nevertheless, as a survivor she wasn't able to entirely ignore the fact that marrying a US citizen might change her station for the better. Moreover, she could not deny the pleasurable feeling that cloaked her when they were together.

# Chapter 45

Stripped to singlets and dungarees under the merciless Texas sun, German prisoners of war armed with hoes slashed at weeds sprouting between the thigh-high cotton plants.

Taking a break from "chopping," U-boat captain Jupp Oster stood upright and arched his back. An agricultural area such as Brownsville needed manpower. Mexico had provided the "stoop labor" in peacetime. Now the US offered those foreign workers much better paying jobs in armament plants. Because of this POWs could volunteer for such menial chores in the fields and orchards. He earned approximately ten cents per hour payable in coupons accepted at the prison canteen.

He tugged a bandana from a hip pocket, mopping sweat from his forehead and the sinews of his forearm. Field labor had hardened his body and maintained the spareness that resulted from a submariner's meager diet.

If what his long-lost brother Peter had related at the doctor's office came to pass, his physique might soon revert. He would remain thin but the muscles and stamina would decay. Should they be fortunate enough to escape to Germany he would again ship out on a campaigning U-boat. That was his calling, his profession. The rigors of living with the constant threat of drowning would, in the event, be preferable to an existence behind bars.

Chief Patrol Inspector Nussbaum, who ran the work detail, supervised from the shade of a scrawny tree. Suddenly the beefy officer bellowed an unintelligible order before tottering towards the far side of the cotton field. He looked beyond Nussbaum, seeing what had startled the border patrolman. Across the road flames blazed from a pile of cotton trash that lay in the yard of a rumple down, two-story structure clad in tin.

Although barely understanding a cotton gin's function, he had seen similar mounds near these mills, assuming they were the refuse remaining after extracting the white fibers.

Nussbaum turned back to the prisoners and bellowed in German, "Get your asses over here! Let's put out this fire."

Men began hustling after the officer.

Jupp had taken several strides towards the fire before recalling his brother's instructions. He halted then pivoted around. At about that moment Peter stepped from among tall rows of corn in an adjacent field, motioning for Jupp to follow him. Jupp glanced at Nussbaum and the prisoners beating at the pyre with their tools. He dashed away, following Peter back among the corn stalks. It took only moments to catch him.

"Keep moving. Can't talk," Peter wheezed, clearly short of breath from his exertions. "We've got to get out of here before they miss you."

"Did you start that fire?" Jupp asked.

His brother did not answer as they bumbled through the chest-high corn. He tried a few more questions before giving up. Within minutes they reached the far side of the field. A dirt road separated this plot from another in which a short green vegetable grew in long rows. They continued beyond this field.

After they had traversed at least another kilometer of agricultural plots, they reached a stand of trees. Peter staggered into the shade, fading back among the brush before dropping onto his hands and knees in a pant.

Peter eventually regained enough wind to speak. "Go out near the edge of the field and watch for anyone following."

He squatted in the tall grass bordering the field as Peter had instructed. After some minutes he started from a noise. His brother had edged up from behind, seemingly recovered from the forced march.

"Nobody's shown up so far. How are you doing?" Jupp asked.

"Drained, but I'll make it." Peter flopped down into the weeds. "I'd never have managed to run this far a few weeks ago. But the last many days on the move, and not eating normally have toughened me up some."

"Peter, I've been driving myself crazy since our meeting in the doctor's office trying to figure out what this is about. You must tell me."

"You're right, brother, it is time you find out what you've signed on for." Peter began relating what he knew of the mission.

"You've got to be insane to try something like that," he said after Peter had laid out the plan. Although happy to be free of prison, realization he might soon be dead caused him to question the decision to flee.

"That's our intention, for better or for worse," Peter said jauntily. "We'll keep out of sight today. After dark we'll sneak into town. I'll take you to meet our leader."

# Chapter 46

Eager footsteps clattered up the steps to Dangler's room. Was it the FBI come to arrest him?

Breathless, Thael burst into the apartment. "It worked! I did it! The U-boat man is free!"

He grabbed the American Nazi with both hands, crunching his shoulders. 'Tell me about it?"

"Like you suspected, I waited at the gate of the fort and a truck headed out with about ten prisoners in the back. I had to pedal that old bike like mad, but I kept them in sight."

"Was it far away?"

"Not at all. They stopped at a field with a bunch of plants growing in it. All the men climbed down and went among the plants and started hoeing. I went and got Peter and brought him back there. Across the road was a metal building with a big pile of dead stuff."

"Dead stuff?"

"Yeah, like dried out plants. Sure enough, when I stuck a match to the pile it went up quick."

"That's all it took?"

"Yep. The prisoners came running over to put out the fire. Jupp snuck away with Peter."

"You're a good man, Thael."

He had stewed over Thael taking part in Jupp's escape. The boy's manner was confrontational. He could become volatile in dicey situations. For those reasons he had barred Thael from interacting with the POW guards. They had discussed the problems of lighting a fire in a nearby field if it had green, growing plants. A nearby refuse pile had proven fortuitous.

With Thael apparently behaving and Stark an uncertain conspirator, he had another task to entrust to the young man.

"We've got to start trying to make contact with the Mexican."

Thael regarded him with interest.

"That newspaper ad I had you place, did you read it?"

"It didn't make any sense. I figured it was a secret code."

"Something like that. It will have meaning only to a person who knew to be on the look out for a signal that we have arrived."

"Now I get it," Thael said.

"Before I left Germany some people set up the notice as a method for me to meet up with a man who might help us. Our friend has supposedly been looking in the newspaper for the advertisement. Once he sees it he'll make contact."

"You think he's still around?"

"He should be. I was told he was deported from Mexico because of his politics and now lives here."

Thael nodded.

"So here's the procedure for making contact. He'll be around the railroad station and be wearing a gold-colored shirt. That's why I had you buy that dull yellow shirt yesterday. It's not for me, but for you."

Thael curled a lip in apparent distaste for the apparel.

"Put it on then head over to the train depot. You will likely recognize one another because you'll both be wearing similar colored shirts. Don't approach anyone. Wait for him to come to you. He'll probably ask something like 'are you looking for a ride to Point Isabel,' or something very close to that. The key words you are listening for are 'Point Isabel.' Understand?"

"Got it."

"If anyone in a gold or yellow shirt comes up and says anything other than those words, you may speak with them. Just remember, they are not the person we are looking for. So, politely brush them off—don't be rude. You know what I'm talking about don't you?"

"Yes. What's this guy look like?"

"I've no idea. He's a Mexican."

"He can talk English?"

"Enough to communicate with you, I'd guess."

"After I've made contact what do I do?"

"He'll tell you a time and place where I can meet him. He may not show up today. I want you at the train station every day at about three in the afternoon. That's the time a passenger train arrives, so there should be a crowd that you can blend in with. Don't be too obvious. Walk through the waiting room periodically to see if someone approaches you. And, above all, stay out of trouble. That is how secret agents operate—very quietly, very smoothly."

# Chapter 47

The park occupied an entire city block. A fountain bubbled at its center. In the coolness of the evening, people chatted quietly while watching children splashing in the fountain's pool.

Dangler and Thael sat on a wrought iron bench. Earlier the youthful American had come back from the train depot, reporting he had spoken with the Mexican. This park would be the site of the rendezvous.

Thael poked him. He turned, noting Thael's eyes following a squat, swarthy man strolling towards them. As the man passed their bench, he nodded acknowledgement, his gait never wavering. The man's covert behavior seemed to indicate a preference for secrecy.

The Mexican continued along a walkway leading out of the park. They followed him across the street and into a walled cemetery.

"I am Jose Zarate." The man said in passable English. "And you are?"

Dangler introduced himself. For some unknown reason Zarate did not appear threatening—unusual considering that he was likely a blooded veteran of the long-running Mexican revolution.

"I was told to expect you some time ago." Zarate's brow wrinkled concernedly above inky eyes.

"We were delayed."

Zarate, grooming a dark mustache with a thumb and forefinger, waited for him to continue.

The Mexican seemed almost too glib, considering the nature of this assignation. That put him on alert. He had been expecting to make contact with a fellow by the name of Carrasco.

"Mr. Zarate, do not take offense, but I am wondering if it might be better that I discuss my business with General Carrasco. He was the individual I was instructed to deal with."

"Carrasco is gone."

"I don't understand?"

"My friend and former leader, Nicolas, is dead." Zarate made the sign of a cross on his chest.

"Oh?" Globke, the man who had briefed him in Berlin, had evidently not known of Carrasco's fate. It was to be expected, considering much of Globke's information had come from old news magazines.

"Not to worry. I've been a follower of Carrasco since 1933."

Now feeling more at ease with Zarate, he dismissed Thael. After a brief protest, the American left.

"As a 'follower' you are speaking of being a member of the 'Gold Shirt Party'? That was the group I had been expecting to meet up with?"

"Yes. 'Gold Shirts' is not the official name. It came from when Carrasco fought alongside the rebel named Poncho Villa. You know about him?"

"A little."

Globke had lent him a book about the bandit, who had pillaged along the US border. He had not read it.

"Poncho had some elite soldiers he called his 'golden group.' General Carrasco decided to name our fighters after them. They are known as the 'Dorados.' They are like your 'Blacks', no?"

"Possibly." Zarate was apparently referring to the SS. They wore black and had at one time been nicknamed "Black Shirts."

"President Lazar Cárdenas went leftist after assuming office because he got the backing of the Communist Party," Zarate went on. "They wore red shirts. We were fighting with them in the streets. That's when we started wearing gold-colored shirts—to tell friend from foe. We lost the battle in the end. Cárdenas sent us all over here. America took us in because they thought it would help bring peace to Mexico."

"You came to the United States along with Carrasco?"

"We ended up in San Antonio."

With circumstances changed—now dealing with this unknown personality—he wanted to vet Zarate to determine if the Mexican rebel had the wherewithal to come through with the necessary aid.

"You were with Carrasco on the raid from here across the border into Mexico?"

According to a story, which he had happened upon in the American news magazine Time, in 1938 some 30 Gold Shirts had gone into Matamoros and began firing pistols at the police. They killed one officer and three of their own were slain.

"Of course," a perturbed Zarate hissed. "Carrasco sent me down here months before the action to line things up. The raid was really my doing. He showed up just a few days before it came off."

"And the raid over there, was it a success?"

"I told Carrasco that such an attack was a foolish thing to do. Only a handful of us went across. It was never about overthrowing the Federales there. He only wanted to make a statement, put citizens on the alert that the revolution was not over. It had been two years since the faithful had heard anything out of us. He knew shooting up the town and killing a few officers would make the newspapers all over Mexico."

"What happened afterwards?"

"Nicholas left the area immediately. He asked me to remain behind. The frontier is a hotbed of unhappiness. Not just us Gold Shirts, either. He wanted me to keep in touch with similar thinking people."

"You have done that?"

Zarate nodded, then glanced around, insuring they were still alone. "The revolution goes on. We need certain supplies to continue the fight. If your people can help us with that, possibly we can help you."

He assumed that the Mexican referred to war implements. Germany possessed an arsenal that revolutionaries hungered after.

"Now that you know a little about us, what is it you are after?" the Mexican asked.

Now satisfied that Zarate was capable of providing support he needed to outline some ideas where these rebels could help, while at the same time keeping details of the mission vague.

"We are going to be involved in an operation at the airfield. It might take more men than I have. Would you and others be willing to take part?"

Zarate grimaced. "What you ask is not likely. We are fortunate not to be rotting in a Mexican prison. The Americans tolerate us. They will not treat us so kindly if we become involved in such an affair."

"What about being part of a diversion, creating a distraction?"

"That would be near the airport where you plan to operate?"

"Yes."

Zarate preened his mustache before responding. "I doubt many would want that much exposure to American policemen—for the same reason I just mentioned. But possibly some may risk it. Is there anything we could do quietly, behind the scenes?"

While disappointed, the response was not totally unexpected. He stepped down another notch on the list of potential assistance these rebels might provide.

"We will need a boat. Can you help us with that?"

"That may be possible. This boat—to where are you taking it?"

"Into the Gulf of Mexico."

"How far?"

"A few hundred miles."

"How many people will you have?"

"Four or five."

"Just people?"

"I may have to transport a large item that might weigh several hundred pounds."

"You are the captain?"

"One of my group is experienced."

"We have no such craft. But possibly something can be arranged. I assume you need the boat on this side of the river?"

"That would be best."

Zarate nodded. "Before acting I must speak with someone in the Mexican capital—the intermediary between our group and your government. Your country has been most helpful to our cause. I'll see what they say."

"How soon will you have an answer?"

"Why don't we meet at the city market in two days? Say at four o'clock in the afternoon. I'll be wearing my gold shirt and hat." Zarate grinned.

# Chapter 48

"I suppose you can handle a small boat, can't you?" Dangler asked Jupp Oster.

"Of course. During training I spent months at sea on surface vessels, both large and small. What kind of craft you looking at?"

"I don't have any details, but I'm hoping it might be some kind of coastal patrol boat."

"Where are you going to lay your hands on one of those?"

"We've some Mexican 'friends.' I believe they will try to pirate one for us."

He listened to Jupp's sigh, wondering about its implications. Did the submariner believe his hope absurd?

He had met the U-boat master only minutes earlier. Following Jupp's escape the Oster brothers had hidden in farmland awaiting nightfall. They had arrived at the garage apartment during the time he and Thael were rendezvousing with Zarate earlier that evening. He had just begun briefing Jupp on the operation.

"I take it that you have some doubts whether these Mexicans will come through with such a boat?" he questioned.

"It seems like a long shot." Jupp replied.

"I was also skeptical about their abilities. I am more confident now."

"Why is that?" Jupp asked.

"World war, or not, the revolution is still underway in the minds of many Mexicans I now realize. The conservatives are opposed to anything the ruling liberals want. That includes participation in what they see as 'America's war.'" He was no doubt embellishing the facts for Jupp.

"If your U-boats had not been so successful the Mexicans mights still be 'sitting out' the war," he continued. "Roosevelt had been pressuring them to join in. It was only as a result of two Mexican oil tankers being sunk in quick succession that things changed."

Jupp nodded. "I'm familiar with those victories. Reinhardt Suhren and I talked after he'd nailed the Potero del Llano off the Florida coast. He told me she had a load of crude oil and was probably destined for New York."

"The following week another tanker was sunk." Dangler continued.

"I know all about it, too," Jupp nodded. "That was the Faja de Oro. I had come across her earlier. She was topped off with oil at that point. There was some question in my mind about her status. She had been an Italian ship originally but the rumor was that the Mexicans had seized her.

"I trailed the tanker and asked BdU for advice. At that time we were respecting Mexican neutrality. Headquarters told me to let her go. It turned out to be a good thing. The next day I used my last two 'eels' on a much bigger target and bagged her. Eventually U-106 sank Faja de Oro. By that time she was heading back to Tampico empty."

"Interesting little coincidence," he commented. "The two losses led Mexico into war against us. It was an unpopular move for many Mexicans. It so divided the country that at one point all the living ex-presidents of Mexico agreed to parade with President Camacho as a show of unity."

Jupp appeared to be paying close attention. He continued laying out the background Globke had provided.

"The Sinarquistas," he explained, "are an ally of Germany due to their fascist leanings. They, for all intents and purposes, built the secret U-boat resupply base. I am told you are aware of it."

Jupp raised an eyebrow, undoubtedly surprised he knew of the facility.

"Yes." He couldn't suppress a smug nod. "That base came into being after our Foreign Office made secret appeals to influential Sinarquistas. These Mexican dissidents essentially built the station for Germany. It is central to my plan.

"To insure that the outpost remains functional arrangements have been made to deploy Mexican soldiers sympathetic to our cause to the region. They've implemented a 'charm campaign' with the few local fishermen there—paying them handsomely to forget anything they should never have seen.

"That is why I have become convinced the Sinarquistas will cooperate with us. I believe they will at least try to get a boat into our hands."

"Maybe they will," Jupp said neutrally.

"And the secret base—you'll be able to locate it?" He asked.

"Finding that place is the least of the problems. Peter has told me a little about the operation. It's a tall undertaking, in my opinion. Think about what you have to accomplish before getting to the supply base."

Jupp then ticked off the obstacles on his fingers. "Storm a top-secret testing facility. Overpower the guards. Find what you are after. Escape and make it away from a heavily patrolled coast. Finally, cross hundreds of miles of ocean undetected."

"Sounds like you're afraid to throw in with us?" Thael sneered. "We risked our necks to spring you from prison, and now you don't want to go through with your end of the deal."

# Chapter 49

Thael's intimations of cowardice caused Jupp to flare. His fist bunched. But before he could cock an arm the wisdom born of commanding men in life and death situations beneath the sea took hold. He stepped back, shook his head, and snorted in disgust.

"Listen son," he spoke only to Thael, "at Mürwick, where all U-boat commanders train, we quickly picked up on the fact that most of us would not survive the war, possibly not even our first patrol. That is just the way life is for Unterseeboots."

However, privately he believed that he would be among the lucky few to make it to war's end. That optimism continued. When brother Peter mentioned an escape in the doctor's office during their reunion, shedding the tedium of prison life was paramount in his mind.

After the scope of Dangler's espionage mission became known he assayed the odds of survival had shrunk. He would, nevertheless, attempt to see the theft of the American jet engine through to success. As a warrior, duty called.

To that end, of one thing he was certain—any voyage they undertook would have a better chance of succeeding if everyone involved understood that once they put to sea he was in sole command. The time had come to build the confidence that not only Thael but also Dangler would need in order to follow his orders come what may.

"I got my first boat 32 months ago. Since that time I've been at sea all but six weeks until my capture a few months back. We earned 'kill pennants' for four warships, 22 merchantmen, and 2 aircraft. Not counting the airplanes my total tonnage sunk comes up to something in the neighborhood of half-a-million tons."

Such a score was typical for commanders who had survived that long in combat situations. Of course, there were not many who had. The 500,000 tons seemed to have registered with Thael and Dangler based upon their respectful gazes.

"Most of my patrols had been in the western Atlantic. My luck turned sour when I was sent into the Gulf of Mexico. All our propulsion systems failed at nearly the same time due to fuel contamination. We were some 200 miles north of the Yucatan coast of Mexico."

"That's a long way from Germany," Thael acknowledged.

"We have to stop oil from reaching US refineries," Dangler explained. "I once read that well over half of all Mexican oil production goes there."

The more Jupp heard the more satisfied he became with the thoroughness of Dangler's preparations. The agent seemed to possess a good grasp of the Mexican situation. He wondered if Dangler was similarly competent when it came to developing and executing a plan?

He returned to the tale of the capture. "Immobilized as we were, there was no question that we'd soon be sighted by the enemy.

"Standing orders are to alert BdU in the event a boat had to be abandoned—they need to know where to look for shipwrecked seamen. As fate would have it, the Americans intercepted my signal. Apparently a US navy craft was in the vicinity.

"First light came. We had the sea cocks opened and the boat flooding. The lookouts called me topside. An enemy destroyer was laying off. All its guns were trained on us."

"You surrendered without a fight?" Thael asked in apparent disbelief.

"I had no choice. We had no power to maneuver and launch torpedoes. The crew were either going to be killed or captured—they'd be out of the war either way. But I was at least denying the enemy a submarine. We had already dropped the cryptographic equipment and code books over the side in weighted bags. They were on the ocean bottom."

"Your U-boat went down?" Dangler asked.

"It did. The destroyer captain must not have realized what was happening. The stern was already awash, the pumps disabled. My crew was boarding our inflatable dinghies. We were doing it on the opposite side from the enemy.

"By the time they realized we were not going to put up a fight before surrendering and got a 'prize crew' coming over to board, it was too late for anyone to save the boat. I did my best under the circumstances. No lives were lost. The enemy was deprived of a valuable asset of war."

"You were intending on paddling those little boats to the rescue base?" Dangler asked.

He nodded.

"So exactly where is this rendezvous so much of my mission depends on?" Dangler fixed him.

"I'm not saying."

Upon surrendering to the US Navy lieutenant commander on the destroyer he had done his best to banish knowledge of the base and its exact location from memory. He preferred to keep it secret. Speaking about it at this point served no purpose.

"What?" Dangler railed. "I'm in charge here. This is my mission. I need to know so I can plan."

"After what I went through to keep the enemy from gleaning even a hint of the base, I'm not going to risk that secret slipping out to them. You'll know only when it is necessary, and not a moment before."

"I can't accept that." Dangler blustered.

"You'll have to, but I'll try to explain why. Both sides recognized from the outset of the war that Mexico's vast oil reserves would be in play. Tankers had to pass through the Gulf of Mexico.

"The Americans understood that we would be operating over a month's cruising time from our European bases, and often weeks from our Atlantic 'mulch cows.' Those are the provisioning ships. Given these long distances it would be obvious to our enemies that we would want to make arrangements for emergencies occurring so far away.

"Briefers at BdU told me that our other reserve bases in the Caribbean had been discovered and destroyed. The one you mentioned in Mexico was still operational when I left Germany. I vowed to do my part to keep it that way.

"Following the loss of my boat, I was sent to Fort Hunt—that's in the state of Virginia. A team of US naval officers worked on me intensely trying to learn of any resupply bases."

"They tortured you?" Thael's respect seemed to have returned.

Eyes closed, he nodded slightly.

"You never told them anything?" Thael asked.

"Never."

Nor would he at this time reveal to Dangler's cadre that midway between the towns of Cuidad del Carmen and Coatzacoalcos—where the Yucatan Peninsula begins its arc to the northeast—an unmanned depot awaited shipwrecked German seamen.

It lay along the shores of a lagoon on the Rio Seco, formed where the river joins the Gulf of Mexico. Behind a sand bar and hidden in the jungle, it was stocked with necessities. When a vessel went missing in the area, the depot would be among the first places Kriegsmarine rescuers would check.

"I didn't realize the Americans could be so harsh." Dangler sniffed.

"We're at war." Jupp shrugged. "Anything goes. Now here's the point. If I went through what I did and kept the information from the enemy, I don't want that effort to be wasted.

"If one of you is captured something might slip out during interrogation. Or someone might let it out in hopes of saving their own hide. I'm in this operation with you. I want to be able to use that base to save myself."

"But what if you are the one captured? Then we won't know where to go." Thael huffed.

"I'll tell you the location when the time is right. Although, it doesn't much matter in that event. None of you've been to sea, have you?" he stared at a silent Dangler, who had undoubtedly recognized the U-boat man's critical role.

"I guess you're right." Thael concluded.

When the briefing ended, the Oster brothers eventually retired to sit on the steps leading to the apartment. Dangler supposed they were catching up on the missing years. As he was bidding Thael goodnight, the young American said he wanted to discuss something.

"What's on your mind?"

"I want to know your opinion of Stark?" Thael asked.

"In what regard?"

"He's not up to carrying through on this operation. He's just too much of a sissy to do what has to be done. I didn't bring it up before because until Jupp showed up I wondered if we were on something of a 'wild goose chase.' I was having trouble seeing how we could make it happen with the people we had."

Apparently Jupp's presence had turned Thael into a believer.

"I think we can pull it off now," Thael said. "But we've got this worthless baggage named Stark. He's liable to screw everything up. When it comes time to take out any guards, he's likely to be apologizing before we cut their throats. He'll be in the way, hurting us, not helping us when the going gets tough."

He stretched, then yawned, trying to determine how to handle Thael. He could not argue Stark's case with anything approaching conviction. The Texas farm boy was exceedingly naïve, probably did not comprehend the violence ahead. Stark continued to be under the impression that the engine would be hidden a short distance from the airfield, and would eventually be returned to the Americans.

He had been considering telling Stark to walk away, asking that he keep quiet about their mission. In exchange for Stark's silence, they would not incriminate him in any way, should they fall into enemy hands. They had not had that conversation quite yet because there might still be assignments Stark could handle.

That being said, he had to admit that Mark would be of little value in a fight. The escape from the prison cemetery service never figured to be bloody. The rail yard incident could be excused as an act of expedience. But depending on what they discovered when they got to the site of the engine heist, it might be necessary to kill any guards. That was an eventuality that had to be fully discussed and planned for in advance. He worried how Stark might react at that point.

"I'd be glad to take care of Stark for you," Thael said.

"What are you talking about?"

"Take him out."

The threat rocked him. Murder had never crossed his mind.

"Peter Oster wants him killed, too."

"You've discussed this with him?"

"Yes, more than once."

Thael had thought deeper and longer about killing Mark than he had initially imagined. This was not bravado born of listening to Jupp's derring-do.

"Stark knows too much. If he's picked up they'll break him," Thael snapped his fingers, "just like that. You don't have to be involved—just give me the word."

"If it comes to that, I'll speak to you first," he replied dryly.

He had to keep the young American Nazi under control for a few more days. They were closing in on the prize.

He had made it to the US and located Peter Oster. The two had been imprisoned, but managed to recruit two other conspirators before escaping. They had traveled to Brownsville. Here he had sprung a U-boat captain to sail them to freedom with the parts from a new engine. There were Mexican dissidents would likely aid them. They were almost ready to strike.

# Chapter 50

The Texaco station attendant studied Harvey Black's Border Patrol badge.

"I guess I can let you have some gas," the teenager finally stammered, handing the shield back.

He had expended the last of his fuel coupons on the drive to San Antonio from El Paso. Since then by employing this credential, he had managed to coerce reluctant service station personnel into selling him fuel.

To keep the boy at his work of hand pumping the Ethyl up into the glass measuring container, from which it would flow into his tank by gravity, he washed the windshield himself. While digging in his wallet for a few bills, he pondered if enough cash remained to make it back home. He had spent plenty chasing the fugitives hundreds of miles with nothing to show for it.

The incidents at the Brownsville airport yesterday had, however, begun to convince him that he had latched onto their trail. First, there had been the possible sighting of Stark fleeing on a bicycle. Then the encounter with a foreign—possibly German—woman took place.

Now, after a night of reflection, they seemed to be the product of an overactive imagination spurred by a desire to apprehend the men. The lust for an arrest had first begun to ebb as he absorbed the impact of a telegram that had awaited his return to the hotel yesterday evening.

The nephew, who had been listed as "missing in action," was now classified as "presumed dead." The Flying Fortress had crashed. No survivors, concluded the Army Air Corps. Black knew his place was with his sister-in-law. The time had come to admit the folly of this pursuit. He planned to hurry home today.

Fueling complete and change in hand, he was about to walk out of the little square building, whose architecture reminded him of an oversized child's playhouse. Then he asked the boy if there was a telephone he might use for a last check with the FBI before heading out of town.

"Official business, I assure you," he said after noting the young man's frown.

"I just work here, sir. The boss—he'll get after me. But he's due here any second. You can speak to him yourself."

"I need to call the FBI, son. If you want, I'll leave the nickel."

The kid, apparently skeptical, remained silent.

"Here's the number." He scratched Couzzins' telephone number on a scrap of paper. "You place the call, see for yourself."

The attendant lifted the handset and was soon repeating the number for the central operator. After listening a moment the kid thrust the instrument into his hands.

Apparently whomever answered the call had greeted the gas jockey with a mention of the "Federal Bureau of Investigation." Thoroughly spooked, the boy wanted nothing to do with the outfit.

He spoke into the handset, asking the secretary to put Couzzins on.

"Been waiting for your call," the agent said. "A couple of things have taken place that may have a bearing on why you are here."

"Oh." A small twinge of regret that he had even telephoned flickered, as he fought to keep his priorities between professional and personal obligations in perspective.

"First, we received an anonymous note. Quite vague, but mentioning doings out at the airport. One interpretation is that it refers to possible sabotage."

"That happen often? People sending in anonymous tips?"

"Not too often. Had one a few Fridays back at the courthouse. Turned out a juror wanted out of deliberations early for the weekend. Had his fishing buddy telephone in a bomb threat. They cleared the courthouse, police searched, but by then the judge had sent the jurors home until Monday. I solved that one real quick, through the Bell central office switchboard."

Couzzins began relating how he had zeroed in on the perpetrator.

He interrupted, bringing Couzzins back to the present. "What was the other item that caught your eye?"

"Sorry, I got off track," Couzzins apologized. "We had a POW escape from Fort Brown. Actually, it didn't happen at the fort, but that's where they keep the prisoners.

"Anyway, he was out doing field work when he ran off. There might have been others involved, too. The Nazi got away because a mysterious fire broke out nearby at about that same time."

"Interesting. I've got to make a call—see what my chief wants me to do. I'll be in touch." He lied about contacting anyone in New Mexico.

Torn between the hunt and the family, he lit a smoke. After a few puffs he fired up the Studebaker and pointed it out of Brownsville. His widowed sister-in-law was in mourning over the loss of her only child. His place was with her.

As he rolled through verdant fields of vegetables and citrus orchards he stomped down feelings of defeat. He held no illusions concerning ego. Pride often controlled his actions—both personal and professional. In the present chase some of the drive had been inter-agency rivalry. Nothing he would like more than to capture a dangerous group of saboteurs out from under the nose of the FBI.

Such an outcome would undoubtedly garner a reprieve from any discipline resulting from his excursion here. It might earn him a commendation. Maybe even a promotion out of the tedious duty of guarding Nazis.

The death of his nephew at the hands of Germans added a new dimension to his motivations, as well. It was the first instance where personal revenge was levering him forward. If he could trap these Nazis it would mitigate the guilt he felt about staying on the case, rather than tending to affairs at home.

By the time the city limits sign announcing "McAllen Texas," appeared in the windshield he realized there would be no going to El Paso today. He turned around and headed back to Brownsville, renewing his vow to nab the men.

Blood up, he barged into Couzzins' office about noon. The agent and his secretary hurriedly broke an embrace. She smoothed her dress and scooted out the door.

"What took you so long?" Couzzins said from beneath his oversized Stetson hat, ignoring the peccadillo with the woman. "I expected to see you here shortly after our telephone conversation."

He disregarded the question, preferring not to admit he had been heading home. "May I have a look at the note?"

Using a letter opener Couzzins slid a sheet of paper across his desk. "Don't touch, just read. We've got several prints—haven't matched them up to anyone yet. Could be they are only from postal people who handled it. No envelope, it came just like you see it, half-folded once."

He read the printed words several times.

Guard the secret work at the airport.

"My first impression is that a woman sent it," Couzzins said. "Of course, it would have to go to our Washington lab for conclusive analysis by the experts."

"The wording seems a little odd," he observed. "Any thoughts on what the writer is referring to at the airport?"

"There's a couple of projects underway there. General Electric has been working on a gun sight. I believe that one is pretty well wrapped up. Another one involving the B-29 and a new type of engine is still hot."

"I saw that bomber taking off yesterday."

"But you didn't see what's inside her belly, I bet." Couzzins smirked.

He shook his head.

"It's top-secret, called a 'jet.' Going to end this war real quick once it goes into service."

As Couzzins revealed additional details about the new engine, Black's pulse quickened. When the FBI agent realized he may have let slip some confidential information, he stopped talking about the jet's details and returned to the note.

"About the wording, the person who wrote it could be a foreigner. Lord knows, we've got enough of them here.

"Another thing I can tell you is that the paper came from one of our hotels here in town—The El Jardin. The sender ripped the letterhead off the top of the page, but the paper is expensive, and unique. My girl ran over and picked up a sample from their lobby. It's a for sure match."

"You think the person who sent it is staying there?" he asked.

"I'd say there's a good possibility. We don't admit this publicly, but I'm certain you know from your own work, some of these 'most wanted' crooks we collar aren't the brightest of souls. I can't recall if I even asked, was a female among those you are looking for?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Couzzins humphed. "Thought one of them might be getting 'cold feet.'"

"How about this prisoner of war who ran away, what happened there?"

The agent described a fire starting in a pile of cotton waste and how during the resulting commotion a German U-boat captain disappeared.

"The senior MP at the fort, who is looking into the matter, passed on some interesting background," Couzzins said, while retrieving the anonymous note using the letter opener.

"Not long before the escape the same POW went to see a local physician. There is some confusion in everyone's mind about how the appointment came about. Regardless, those in the doctor's office recalled the visit. A man of German descent had a fainting spell in the waiting room at about the same time."

His antennae went up. Along with the prisoner of war, at least one other German might be connected to the incident. Added to that was the warning note and the foreign woman with the red hair he had run into at the airport.

If these suspicious concurrences proved up, it changed the case from a simple prisoner escape to one involving America's security. With national defense involved the stakes went sky high.

Now more than ever he must act surreptitiously. If he failed, if the fugitives managed to harm the US, he would be in serious trouble for not being more forthcoming with responsible officials concerning his suspicions. To that end, the incident with Couzzins and the secretary locked in an embrace might cause the agent to chose to forget Black had ever come to town.

"Are there many 'Fritzies' here?" he asked, while noting that Couzzins wore a wedding band.

The FBI agent shrugged. "Some have been forced to move away—sent inland due to the security risk."

"What are the chances the fire was a coincidence that this POW just happened to take advantage of?"

"Hard to say. Fires of that sort are not unknown."

Couzzins spent a few more minutes briefing him about search efforts for the POW, then the meeting broke up. He left the office offering the FBI agent no clues about his intended activities.

He walked directly to the hotel. The eight-story building fronted an entire block. An electrified sign crowning the structure proclaimed it as "Hotel El Jardin." Twin radio antennae towers sprouted from the roof. Transmission wires stretched between them.

The manager spoke with him at some length, producing recent registration records as requested. He was unable to derive any useful information from them. Of course, a person staying nearby could step into the hotel lobby and snatch a page of stationery from one of the writing desks to use for such a note.

He spent hours scouring the commercial streets surrounding the hotel. Stores lined many blocks. Most offered an upper level that often appeared to serve as a home for the proprietor of the shop below. Periodically he came across an entrance with stairs leading up. A nearby sign would often advertise rooms for let.

In some instances he was able to quiz an available landlord about renters. In the end, no leads turned up. The afternoon grew hot. He retreated to the coolness of the hotel lobby to assess his next move.

# Chapter 51

Legs dangling from the truck's tail gate, Klare rode into town with baggage from a recently arrived Pan American aircraft. Earlier she had heard the large bell in the terminal announce its landing, recognizing there was a good chance to catch a lift.

The flight, which had originated in the eastern US, was wending its way down to South America, a trip of several days. Eleven passengers on this leg were now just ahead in a touring car bound for the Hotel El Jardin to overnight. Their luggage followed in the truck on which she rode.

The vehicle jarred to a stop before the entrance. She shouldered her rucksack and bounced down.

Then she saw him—the man from the airport that had questioned her yesterday!

He stood under the entrance marquee smoking. Neck hairs tingled. The white flying suit undoubtedly stood her out from the others who were clad in civilian attire. For a frozen moment the two glared at one another.

She snatched up two valises and started down the opposite side of the vehicle, using it to shield her movements from the booted-man. She peeked around the van's hood. Not seeing him, but assuming he was going to follow her along the street-side of the truck, she scurried into the lobby.

While never breaking stride, she dropped the suitcases near the front desk. She hurried towards the ladies' washroom at the back of the lobby. The maid, dozing in a chair by the door, awoke as she barged in.

She scooted into a stall. Within seconds she had shucked off the coveralls, donning the street clothes—blouse and trousers—contained in the knapsack. She eased back out past the Hispanic woman, who stood at the sink adjusting the water taps in preparation for her use.

Across the lobby the man in cowboy boots stood before the desk questioning the clerk. Exiting out the front door meant crossing behind him. He started to turn from the clerk. She walked further into the building. Ahead were elevators and a door marked "Stairs." She entered, scaling the risers two at a time.

The white coveralls leaping from the truck bed drew Black's attention. The maroon hair seemed familiar. Yes, it was the woman he had questioned at the airport yesterday. Dressed differently, but the same person.

He dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk, toeing it out. When he looked up the woman had disappeared. He checked the street in both directions, not spying her white garb. She must have walked around the far side of the vehicle? He didn't find her there, either. The hotel seemed logical.

At the door a threesome of men were stepping out. Once they had cleared the door he entered the shadowed interior. He searched the lobby for the white suit without result. After budging through a crowd at the front desk, he asked the clerk if he had seen the woman. The flustered man had not. As Black turned back to the lobby he noticed someone bolting through a door. He followed the white blouse and brown slacks.

The stairs led up. He started climbing.

# Chapter 52

Commercial streets hemmed in the compact market square on all sides. Dangler loitered in an archway leading to the roofed area where stalls offered an array of produce.

He found it astounding that a city such as Brownsville enjoyed a thriving bazaar where shoppers bargained and bartered over their wants and needs in a time of rationing. Undoubtedly the sprinkling of horse-drawn carts meant that Mexican farmers contributed to the abundant fruits and vegetables.

He started when Zarate, the Sinarquista contact he had met in the cemetery two days ago, came up from behind and said, "I need a few things. Come."

They wandered down an aisle humming with activity. The Mexican fondled a green fruit that Dangler thought was called an avocado. At another table Zarate bantered with a woman over tomato prices, eventually placing several in a small woven-reed bag he produced from a hip pocket. As they shopped Dangler noticed his companion's eyes roving the crowd.

After buying garlic and onions, Zarate said, "Let's take a stroll down Elizabeth Street."

At the next corner Zarate stopped at a vendor's pushcart. This contraption featured a bicycle, which the proprietor pedaled. Attached immediately before the bicycle's handlebars was the two-wheeled cart. Moments later each man munched on a kabob of fresh fruit.

Side-by-side they ambled along what must be the main street of the town. They eventually left the business district behind, strolling along a mostly deserted residential street.

"I have bad news," Zarate said.

He tensed. "What bad news?"

"I mentioned that I must clear any help we might provide with the leader in Mexico City. I told him what you need. He spoke with his military advisers. They talked against it. We will not be helping you with a boat."

Such an outcome had not been entirely unexpected. He masked the disappointment. Another method of securing a craft would be necessary.

Suddenly a whistle shrilled. He spun around, expecting to find a policeman in pursuit.

Zarate tooted out three more bars before speaking. "Sorry. That's the 'family whistle.' I can only blow it loud."

"What?"

"We Mexicans have many children. The papa makes a certain whistle to call everyone if they have scattered in a park or a market. Each family's tune is unique and passed down through the generations.

He had never heard of the practice.

"I'm the fourth in line in our family to use it. I have called to a friend to join us. He's not in the family but knows it is safe now."

Seconds later he noticed a man striding down the sidewalk towards them.

"I am embarrassed that the 'old women' in Mexico City are frightened," Zarate said as they watched the fellow approach. "They worry about the Federales too much. This is not as good as a boat, but this man coming over to us knows things about the new motor."

He swiveled around, stunned that Zarate had intuited the mission's objective. He had been vague, only mentioning the airport, during their prior discussion.

Zarate shrugged as if to explain. "We are not stupid."

The slight, clean shaven man reached them.

"Paco, mi amigo," Zarate embraced the Mexican in the traditional bear hug of Latin America. Several Spanish words passed between the two friends before Zarate introduced his friend.

"I present Paco. He was once an Aguilas Aztecas. The Americans call them 'Aztec Eagles.' They are Mexican pilots fighting with the Americans in the Pacific."

He shook hands with Paco.

"Now we walk," Zarate said.

They set off down the block again, Paco falling in a step behind he and Zarate.

"I no longer fly with squadron," Paco said. "Excuse my English, I only know what I learn when we train in San Antonio."

Dangler comprehended Paco's words through the heavy accent.

"He still knows people at the airport," Zarate explained.

Paco nodded. "The hangar—very secret. To go inside need military pass. More than 100 men working on engine. They all go home at night. Only two guards there then."

Paco gibbered to Zarate in Spanish, then Zarate spoke.

"It is too complicated for Paco to say in English. So, I will tell you what he said."

"The big plane goes up to 33,000 feet. Everyone wears oxygen and warm flying suits. Up that high there are problems with the engine. There are many scientists and engineers around to study the ones that burn up."

The heat problem had been discussed. He had witnessed an entire aircraft destroyed by an engine fire. "If an engine burns, what is left for the scientists to look at?"

After another exchange between the Mexicans, Zarate translated, "Not a real fire. It is his way of saying the inside parts get too hot. Once the engines are overheated they must be fixed. They normally have extra parts and even entire engines on hand here."

He wanted to pound a fist into his head. Why had he not grasped that in the event of a failure the mother ship could safely return the damaged jet engine to the repair facility. Of course, there would be spare parts available.

They might have the good fortune of slipping into the secret hangar, gathering the critical pieces, and making a getaway. Hours might elapse before someone discovered something missing from a workbench.

The three of them chatted for several more minutes but the fighter pilot provided nothing additional that he had not already learned.

After the flyer departed, Zarate said, "I am truly sorry we will not help with the boat. Is there anything else I might do to aid you?"

"We've talked about a diversion using some of your supporters?

"Possibly a few are willing," Zarate responded.

"Is there any way to get word to you once the mission's timing is set?"

"There is a dead drop you can use. I will check it twice a day until something happens." Zarate then revealed the address of a mailbox. It stood before a vacant lot that had once contained a residence, one which had now been demolished.

He was counting on the Mexican for one more bit of assistance. "I hope you can handle an important detail. Your group obviously has a method of communicating with Germany."

Zarate nodded. "Through Mexico City."

"I need to notify Berlin I am about to act. The message cannot be sent openly." He then gave the Mexican the code word. It would initiate regular checking for their arrival at the secret U-boat supply base in the Yucatan by Kreigsmarine vessels.

Hours following the meeting with Zarate, Dangler spoke with the U-boat captain.

"Jupp, the Mexican connection informed me they cannot provide the boat they promised."

"To be honest, that never was an ideal set up," Jupp replied.

"Why?"

"If the boat the Mexicans had brought was too big or it had insufficient fuel to make our destination, there are only a few harbors we could get into. Each one would be a busy seaport."

"I never considered that." He was reminded of their good luck in securing a seaman for the escape.

"The Mexican police would be more interested in recovering one of their own boats, too," Jupp said. "We will be spending most of the time in Mexican waters. But since you'd already asked them to help, I was not going to raise any issues."

He appreciated the seaman's supportive attitude.

"At this point I'm just as happy commandeering one ourselves. That may give us some options we wouldn't have had otherwise."

"What about a fishing trawler? Thael has reported a fleet harbored around here."

"One never knows the true mechanical condition of a private boat like that. Some are well kept, others limp from breakdown to breakdown."

"So what is your preference, Jupp?"

"Somebody mentioned a nearby US Coast Guard base. I'm wondering if they have a small coastal patrol boat assigned there. It should be in good running condition."

"I've had Thael checking on that."

"One advantage is that if we need fuel we can cruise into a Mexican port. Thael can play the dumb American sailor, tell them it is an emergency and to send the bill to Washington."

He chuckled at Jupp's humor. "Right, let's see what Willi has found out."

Later Dangler and Jupp sat in the apartment listening to Thael relate his reconnaissance of the Coast Guard facility.

"They buy their food from a local grocery store out on the east end of town. I've dropped by trying to make friends with some of them, like you asked, Dieter. They think I'm wanting to join up," Thael snorted.

"I had some good luck, though. They only get about a dollar a day for food. This sailor came into town but didn't have enough money to cover what he needed."

"So you loaned him some?" Jupp asked.

"Yeah, I helped him out, but said I had to go to the base with him in order to get paid back. That's what we did. I took in everything when I was there."

"They must have a boat based there. Was it out on patrol or did you see it?" Jupp asked Thael.

"Yep—it was tied up along side a dock."

"How long is it?"

"Must be close to forty feet, maybe a little less," Thael answered. "The sailor referred to it as a 'Motor Life Boat.' He said it had a gasoline engine and could make about 8 or 9 knots running full out."

"I think I know what he's talking about," Jupp said. "It might work out pretty good for us. Range is probably something like 200 miles if topped off. It may have a sail."

"I think it does. It had a rather large pole sticking up from the middle of the boat." Thael supplied the answer.

"That sounds like a mast to me," Jupp said. "We've got more than 200 miles to run. A sail might save our lives."

"And you know how to sail a boat, I suppose?" Thael asked with growing admiration.

"Ja, I can handle it under sail. If this is the boat I'm thinking of, another advantage is that it would allow us to put into places on the Mexican coast to hide or refuel. It should have a draft shallow enough to allow for crossing the sand bar at our destination. That will simplify things on that end."

# Chapter 53

The shoe shine box the tike lugged was almost too much for him to carry.

About eight years old, Klare guessed he was a child of poor immigrants. His parents most likely labored in the fields.

Since he was walking along the road leading to the airport, she suspected he hung out at the terminal, polishing the shoes of the wealthy who arrived in style on passenger airplanes.

"Hey, little one, want to earn a nickel?" she asked in Spanish.

"Si, señorita." In the universal reaction of shine boys he glanced at her feet, then looked up perplexed because she wore canvas plimsolls.

"No shine today. Are you going to the airport?"

The boy nodded shyly.

"Good. When you get to the airport go to the terminal and the other nearby buildings and see if you can find a man named Mark Stark." She fished a coin from her pocket. "When you find him tell him 'Klare' is waiting and bring him back here. If you do that I'll give you another nickel. Now repeat the man's name and your instructions for me."

It took the child a couple of coached tries before he managed an acceptable English version.

"Now go get him."

The kid scampered off. She stepped back into the foliage and hunkered down, praying she could link up with Mark. She needed help. He was her last hope.

Since escaping from the man at the hotel she had been on the run. He had questioned her once at the airfield. Then he apparently recognized her as she arrived with the luggage from the Pan Am flight.

She evaded him in the lobby by fleeing up a stairway. At the first landing she left the stairwell, wanting to avoid being trapped on higher floors and hoping a window might give access to an adjoining roof or shed from which she could make it down to ground level.

A long hallway transected the rectangular building. Hurrying along the passageway, she tried each door. None opened. At the end of the hall a window allowed entrance to a fire escape platform.

A few steps below another landing provided access to a final set of stairs. Suspended horizontal now, they would angle down towards the ground when a person's mass overcame the counterbalance weight that held them up at present.

She edged along the stairs cautiously. After moving a few feet away from the platform, they began to descend. She moved back towards the landing. The long arm of iron steps stopped dropping, becoming stationary. Another step back and they teetered up.

Covering her method of escape was essential. The man might spend hours searching the hotel, if she could manage to delude him into thinking she was still in the building. But that meant she needed these stairs to retract into the original position.

This last flight of stairs might be too massive for her to lift once on the ground, thus getting it swinging back up. There was another way to maneuver the stairway back into a level position.

She crabbed back to the landing. The stairs leveled. Then she climbed over the railing and worked under the mechanism, hanging like a child on "monkey bars." She swung from step to step. Soon her weight was again tilting the steps lower. She halted. The arm of stairs went stationary, dangling her at least ten feet above the earth below.

Moving one step back started the stairs up. She let go. An instant later her flexed knees absorbed some of the impact with the alleyway. She rolled, thus defusing more of the crash. Looking up, she saw the stairway retracting into its original horizontal position.

Once on her feet she hastened away. Her knees seemed to have come through the drop no worse for wear. A pain in the arches of her feet when she walked apparently the only damage.

Afraid to return to her rented room, she had slept rough in a farm shed last night. This morning she had taken up a position in a copse of banana plants on the main road leading to the field. Her hope was to catch Mark if he passed this way. But he had not. If he were around the airport, however, the kid would likely locate him, since the reward was more than he could otherwise earn that day.

During a fretful night in the shed while slapping at insects she had convinced herself, that Mark was not connected to the FBI, Border Patrol, or any other law enforcement organization. If that were the case, it would have been easy to entrap her through him.

He could have waited for her to show up at the airport, and then signaled the authorities to close in. The booted man's role in pursuing her remained a mystery.

The conclusion—that Mark was not going to arrest her or turn her in to the authorities—was doubtlessly aided by tender stirrings.

She desperately wanted to believe he cared for her. When they were together she experienced strange, compelling emotions. The attraction had finally resolved a raging dilemma—living meant more than mere survival. Affection was required as well.

As she contemplated how much to reveal of her situation, Mark and the shine boy came down the road. She stepped out of the plants and waved.

"What's up? Why didn't you just come to the airport? Why'd you send this Mexican kid looking for me?"

She had not concocted an explanation for her behavior. She busied herself with fumbling a coin from her pocket, then handing it to the boy. By the time she had finished thanking the young messenger, she had an answer to his question.

"There's a man at the terminal who has been hounding me. I didn't want to see him."

"Why's he doing that?"

"Some of my paperwork has expired. He told me to get it renewed. I'm worried that there will be a problem because I forgot to go to the consulate before it ran out."

Mark seemed to accept the explanation.

"How about a little walk?" She locked his hand leading him along, while searching for a way to get off the thoroughfare. "Watcha' been up to?"

"Nothing."

They soon came to a path topping an irrigation ditch. It led away from the road. She turned them along it.

Once well away from the road she spoke. "My ankles are itching me to death—mosquito bites. Maybe the water will help. Want to stick your feet in?"

She plopped down on the bank, slipping off her shoes and immersing her feet in the water.

"That ditch water looks nasty." He squatted next to her.

His gaze drifted off. Never talkative, he seemed more taciturn than usual.

Moments passed in silence before she finally spoke. "Where are you, Mark?"

"Sorry, I was thinking about how different everything is down here."

"How's that?"

"Our creek on the ranch ran over a ledge. During the summer I'd stand in that waterfall and shower. It was perfectly clear and fresher than the well water at the house."

She had long ago experienced the same melancholy when the family ended up in tropical Central America. Neither the geography nor the climatology even remotely reminded her of Germany.

"Strange isn't it—how you grow up and everything around you . . . you just take it for granted." She scratched at her legs.

"And then it's gone, and that's when you realize how sweet and wonderful it was," he continued the thought. "But it's gone forever."

"After the war life will return to normal," she said, hoping that would be the case.

"Not my life." He closed his eyes, quivered slightly. "It's gone forever."

"Why do you say that?" It seemed apparent that for whatever reason he, like she, was another lost soul damaged by circumstance.

"America isn't quite the 'shining star' lots of people think."

She had to agree. Was there a better alternative, though?

It took a bit more coaxing before Mark began calmly relating the demise of his family. Once started the words flowed as he told the story of his life: Ranching with Oma and Opa as a youth; Opa's arrest and incarceration; and Oma's departure to be with her husband.

Throughout she sensed Mark fought to internalize his true feelings of rage and misery. He had, evidently, needed to unburden about the loss of everyone he held dear.

Alone and on his own for some time now, she was most likely the first person he had confided in. Because of the parallels with her own recent experiences the saga was particularly poignant.

She placed a comforting hand on his forearm. "That is as sad a story as I've ever heard. The war won't go on forever, remember that. When peace returns you'll have your Oma and Opa back. You'll be reunited. It will be like it was before."

She noticed his tearful eyes.

He pushed to his feet and hurried away mumbling, "I'll be back."

His abrupt departure presented an opportunity for a quick splash in the ditch to sooth the torment occurring beneath her skin. She had been wondering how to handle disrobing and bathing with him around.

With clothing adorning a bush, airing in the afternoon sun and breeze, she eased into the murky canal. Lacking both soap and a washcloth, she soaked near the bank for several minutes.

Back on land she lounged in the sun, grappling with how to level with Mark. Her heart ached for him, ached for herself. Politics and war had splintered their families, fractured their lives.

Mark's pitiful situation, revealed with such intensity reinforced the belief he would not turn on her. After listening to his depressing tale, she longed to speak about her situation. Was it possible that the two of them, crippled by similar circumstances, might help one another heal?

As she finished buttoning her blouse Mark returned.

"See you got wet. Did it help those bites?"

He seemed to have shrugged off his sorrow.

"They still itch, but I feel cleaner." She bent down and slipped on the canvas shoes.

"Klare, why are you stripping off your clothes and jumping in some dirty stream?"

"Because I don't have any money, or any place to go," she stifled a sob, refusing to look at him.

The question had taken her by surprise. She instantly regretted the outburst. But with the truth out she determined to plead for his help. "Do you have a place for me to sleep?"

"No," he stammered. "I'd help you if I could, but I've not got much money myself."

"Do you know of anyplace a woman without a cent can stay?"

"Why not get an advance on your pay, or a loan from someone at the field?"

"I'm embarrassed about being so broke. I don't really know anyone around here well enough to expect them to trust me, anyway. Besides, I can't go back to the airfield with that man there hassling me about my papers."

While speaking they had started moving on along the footpath. Cultivated fields bounded both sides of the narrow waterway. Ahead a small adobe shanty stood near the irrigation ditch.

"That place looks lived in," she said. "I need a drink. They must have water."

Mark called a hello. No one answered.

She went to the door and knocked. No one appeared. The doorknob turned in her hand.

She peered in, finding a single room furnished in a rustic fashion. A corner held a sink, cast iron cook stove, and an icebox. It appeared to have been lived in recently, but now seemed uninhabited.

"I'm going in to see if the water is running," she called back to Mark.

He joined her. "I guess they won't mind if we take a drink?'

"Why would they? We're not going to hurt anything."

They found glasses in a cupboard and drew water from the faucet, then returned to the yard to sit on a swing shaded by a palm palapa.

"You figure the people who live here are at work?" Mark asked.

"This place hasn't been occupied in weeks. Didn't you see how dusty it was inside? I'm guessing the folks have been away for a time."

"Like weeks or months?"

"Many farm workers along with their entire families migrate north during the growing season. They return here for the winter crops. I'm betting that's why this house is vacant."

"So you are talking months. Are these people Americans?" Mark asked.

"Maybe, maybe not. People cross back and forth between here and Mexico quite often. Sometimes for fiestas they open the bridges and Mexicans stream across. Because there is such a shortage of workers over here, I don't think they check too carefully."

Mark shook his head. "Things going on in this country don't make sense right now. The government is locking up law abiding people. In the meantime Mexicans are free to roam the entire country at will."

"War can exert some strange pressures on governments. Just look what Hitler is doing in mine."

Mark spun around, eyeing her in surprise. "Hey, I thought you said you were from South America?"

"I mentioned Central America. Now I'm talking about where I was born—Germany. We left there years ago."

She had not tried to hide her European birth but had emphasized her Costa Rican experiences when referencing her earlier life.

"I hear there are terrible things going on in Germany with the Jews," he said. "But I tell you some of the things I've seen in our camps are really bad, too. I once worked in a prisoner of war camp."

"You did!" The coincidence of both of them having a connection to internment camps startled her.

"They hired me as a carpenter. I couldn't see much difference between how the POWs are treated and how our detainees, like Oma and Opa, are treated when they stick them in those places."

She knew all too well.

"The cyclone fences in the alien detainment camps have concertina wire along the top. Guards with machine guns keep watch from tall towers."

Firsthand experiences flashing through her mind resulted in a moment of silent misery.

"Someone once told me that they only need treat the civilians the same as the Nazis," he said. "The rules for both are based on the Geneva Convention. Our Negroes don't even have it that good when they lock them up as 'threats.' They've even got Catholic priests held inside those fences. They act like everyone is an enemy. It's no wonder some turn against this country."

Mark suddenly stood. "Want another drink of water?"

She nodded.

He set off for the house.

The empathy apparent in the tone of his last comment about internees set her to wondering. She could almost read into the remark that he had included himself among those who had lost faith in the United States.

When he returned she voiced a concern that had been bubbling since hearing the story of his grandparents imprisonment.

"What's happened to your ranch? Why did you leave?"

He glanced away. "I decided it was best to move on."

Sensing there was more to the story, she let his comment hang.

"I was upset about Oma and Opa. I couldn't leave it alone. I became a nuisance, an embarrassment some might say, to the local government. Powerful people wanted me to go away. They saw to it."

"How do you mean?"

"Rumors started about me being a 'malingerer.' You know what that means?"

She shook her head.

"In wartime it is someone who shirks their duty—won't go off to serve in the army. I felt guilty from the beginning, because I knew all along that I probably couldn't pass a military physical."

That answered the question of why he was not in uniform.

"I'm plenty strong and can do a day's work with the best of them, but I've got what they call 'digestive issues.' There are a number of foods that make me sick. They are common things like bread and milk."

From looking at him she would never have guessed he had any health issues.

"With the army feeding thousands in mess halls, I'm certain that they can't cook special food for me. And I won't do them any good sick. In the camps I saw to my own cooking, so I stayed well.

"When the draft started I registered along with all the other guys my age. They gave me a deferment to help keep the ranch going. Some boys were called up anyway—so long as they had others in the family to keep the farms and ranches in production for the war effort.

"In my case, if I went away to fight there would only be Opa left. He was too old to do everything by himself. Nevertheless, some families who had sent their men off to war still resented me staying behind."

She listened silently, believing this unburdening was therapeutic.

"So even before the trouble over Opa and Oma came up I felt self-conscience. When I'd be in town people tried to avoid me it seemed. Everything got worse after Opa was locked up and I shot off my mouth to a newspaper.

"I tried to straighten things out. Even though I had the work deferment, I explained my health situation to the draft board. I told them to check with my doctor. I also told them that it didn't matter to me, that they could let it be known around town why I was not able to join up. I don't know for sure what they said, if anything. In any event, nothing changed."

He was a sensitive young man, she began to realize.

"It wasn't long before the casualties started. There were people in town who had lost sons. They stopped speaking to me. I couldn't handle it. I'd been considering going away. So when they offered me a chance to work at the camp with Oma and Opa, I took it."

"Oh, I see." She felt relieved his situation was so innocent.

"It turned out that what they really wanted was to keep an eye on me."

He stood up from the swing and fidgeted from foot to foot, gazing across a nearby field. Seconds ticked by.

"I've not been exactly honest. I'm sorry." He continued to look away. "The truth is that I ended up being a prisoner, for all practical purposes."

"All three of you were together?"

"They never did assign me to my grandparents' camp."

His story was involved and seemed to contain contradictions. "How come you are out?"

"They gave me an 'Indefinite Leave Pass.' I had to swear a silly pledge to be good," he snorted. "I also think my special diet caused them headaches."

"Did the government send you down here to work?"

"After the government man said they could put me in the camp with my family, he asked if I could do carpentry. I told him yes, which really wasn't a lie.

"I know a little about wood—trees really. When times were real bad with the livestock we sometimes cut cedar trees and made fence posts, or made charcoal to sell just to get by. I can, in fact, build things. You had to know enough to get by living on a ranch like we did. We couldn't afford to hire professional workmen."

As she attempted to sort out the tangled story Mark told, he suddenly turned to her and spoke brightly.

"Since you don't have a room, what do you think about sleeping here tonight? This place seems abandoned for the time being. I doubt the people who live here will be back soon. Tell you what, I'll stay the night, if being out here alone is frightening," he urged.

The abrupt change of subject caused concern. Had he been lying about his situation? She knew well that technique—intertwine truth with fiction, then move swiftly on to other matters.

The tactic, whether envisaged or not, was having the desired effect. She wanted to believe him. Therefore, she concentrated on the positive, looking past the paradoxes. He apparently wanted her company. She wanted his. Time together, she rationalized, would give her a chance to assess their relationship.

"That's very kind of you to look after me."

"Good, it's settled," he said with a satisfied grin and plopped down next to her on the swing.

Hunger gnawed. She had not eaten since yesterday. "Do you have enough money to buy us something to eat?"

He fished in his Levis, producing a bill and a fistful of change. "Not for a restaurant."

"You could go to a store, buy some eggs and bread, I'll make egg sandwiches."

"Can we change the bread to corn tortillas?"

"Of course," she remembered his food allergies. He was apparently not fibbing about that matter. "How did you manage eating in the camps?"

"Did my own cooking. It wasn't easy, but I survived."

# Chapter 54

The lobby of the El Jardin Hotel was cool and comfortable, in contrast to the streets of Brownsville that sweltered in the noontime sun.

Black, nevertheless, hated lurking in a dark corner hoping the woman he had chased in here the previous afternoon might return. He would much prefer to be on the move—closing in on his quarry. He had, however, last spotted the suspect in this building.

Yesterday's search of the structure's halls and stairwells had taken an hour, producing not a trace of the woman. Next, he had enlisted the aid of hotel personnel to try to determine in what vacant room she might be hiding.

The manager forbade his knocking on guests' doors unless the police ordered the hotel to submit to that type of search though. He backed off, preferring to avoid the involvement of other law enforcers.

This morning he had begun surveilling the lobby from an inconspicuous chair. The only interruption in the monotony was a telephone call to agent Couzzins. There were no new developments according to the FBI man. The dimming prospects for the woman's return to the hotel conspired with an aching buttocks to motivate him to revisit the airfield.

The first stop at the airport was with the mechanic he had questioned in the hangar following the initial encounter with the redhead. At that time, Black had been primarily focused on Stark, the woman had been of minimal interest.

Since then Couzzins had shared the anonymous warning letter possibly written by a foreign woman. Coupled with her rapid disappearance in the hotel yesterday, he was now attuned to her involvement.

Today the mechanic wore street clothes and worked behind an office desk.

Black introduced himself and pulled out his credentials. "Your name, sir, if I may inquire?"

"Max Moore. Weren't you here the other day, officer? What's up?"

"Yes, I spoke to you yesterday. There was a young woman with dark, red hair around here then. You know her?"

"Sounds like Klare," Moore answered

"Does she talk with a strange accent?"

"She's the one."

"What's this woman's last name?"

"Fisherhower, or something close to that. Its got a funny spelling to it—foreign."

"You never checked it on her identification?"

"When I asked to see her pilot license, she told me it had disappeared. Said she was waiting for a replacement to come in from Washington."

He stilled his bouncing toes. "So she's a pilot. How are you two connected?"

"She rents my Waco. Hires herself out as a pilot from time to time."

"You let her fly your plane, but never saw a license?"

"With the war all the men who can fly are away. I need the income to make my payments. Besides, I checked her out in the air—she's a good pilot."

"Does she work for you?"

"Not really. She just buys time in an airplane."

Moore seemed to be protecting the woman. Was he involved somehow?

"Where does she live?"

"She's got a room in town."

"What's the address?"

Moore scratched at his stubbly chin. "Far as I can recall, she never said exactly."

"Why don't you have an address for her?" He stepped back from Moore's desk, over which he had been looming. Now was not the time to allow his aggressiveness to cause the mechanic to become chary.

"I've never really needed her address. She telephones or drops by most days to see if there is a gig. People know to contact me if they want to hire her for a trip."

"You sure you can't get in touch with her?"

"What are you saying, mister?" Moore seemed to take offense.

Black lower his voice, tamping down his impatience. "She hasn't been around today, then?"

"Nope."

"Will she come by here tomorrow?"

"Most likely, or she'll call in. Once in a while she'll hang around the terminal, if she hears a rich passenger is due in on the airlines. Sometimes they want to get out to their ranch quick. So she'll fly them."

"How about her friends—you know any of them?"

"I've never seen her paling around with any of the guys around here. She is one of the most private people I've ever run across. Doesn't talk much about herself."

Frustrated, he warned Moore about mentioning the visit to others. Then he gave Moore the FBI's telephone number with instructions to notify Couzzins immediately upon the woman's return.

He went to the terminal building, on the chance that Claire Fisher was there. She was not. A young boy hunkered on his wooden shoe shine box. The kid checked Black's footwear, then came over. He propped a cowboy boot on the box and the child went to work with polish and a rag. When the boots gleamed he tossed the child two pennies, receiving a happy grin in return.

An agent lounged behind the Eastern Airlines ticket counter. He stepped to the desk.

"Excuse me," he said to the man who thumbed through a stack of stubs. "I'm looking for Claire Fisher, you know her, seen her today?"

"Ain't seen Klare, but she's around here somewhere."

"Oh? How do you know that?"

"Manny," the agent aimed a finger at a shoe shine boy, "talked to her on his way here this morning. A gringo came in earlier looking for Klare. Apparently she had paid Manny to bring the man to her. But the kid and the gringo couldn't communicate. I translated for them."

Black pivoted around. Summoning the child with a curling finger, he barked in Spanish, "Hey, Manuel, get over here."

Manny looked around nervously, apparently hoping it was someone else in trouble.

"Come here, boy," he coaxed more gently in the shared language.

The child rubbed his stained hands on his pants before approaching.

"I'm not mad at you, son. Did you do a favor for a woman this morning?"

Manny nodded hesitantly.

"Tell me what happened."

"She—"

"What's her name?" Black rued his edgy manner, vowing to tame it.

"I don't know, sir. I've seen her around here before."

"Okay, go on."

"She was by the road. She asked me to find a man and take him there."

"What man?"

"I think he was called Marcos. I forget, sorry."

That had to be Stark! "After you found this Marcos, what happened?"

"We went to where she was hiding in the bananas."

"Show me where you took him, and I'll give you a nickel, son."

Manny beamed, hustling towards the exit. They walked a short way down the road leading from the airport. The boy soon stopped, pinpointing an exact location along the verge with his finger. Black flipped him a coin. The kid scampered off.

He scanned the surroundings. It was a rural area composed of cultivated fields interspersed between patches of thorn brush. He longed for his horse, which would allow him to search the nearby acreage in a fraction of the time. He set off on foot along a path bordering a canal.

# Chapter 55

The small grocery nestled alongside a railroad track. Inside Mark found tortillas and eggs with which he and Klare could make a meal.

While settling the bill he heard the whistle of an approaching train. With purchases in hand he stepped outside.

The string of freight cars lumbered nearer, wheels grinding on the iron rails. The shuddering earth coupled with the overawing bulk and brawn of the machine sent his heart thumping. The nightmarish incident with the train unnerved him again.

Although there had been a tense scene when he, Peter, and Willy had to haul Dangler aboard the train in El Paso, the resulting trip in the boxcar heading to San Antonio had been uneventful.

After traveling for nearly 24 hours they slowed to a crawl. As vibrations rattled the train they recognized the sounds—they were crossing over numerous switching points. Eventually they jolted to a stop. Dangler inched open the door, peering out.

"Mark, we're in another rail yard like the one in El Paso," Dangler reported. I'm hoping this is San Antonio. We need to find out what's going on, see if we have to get to another wagon to keep heading south."

He got on his feet and peered over Dangler's shoulder through the cracked door. Parallel rows of tracks held strings of freight cars.

"I'll see what I can find out."

He would have preferred not making the excursion but volunteered, nevertheless. He was sick of Thael's mouthing and knew that Dangler invariably wanted him, not Willi, to handle such forays.

Why did he feel it necessary to please Dangler? It had something to do with becoming part of this band of men. In some ways the four of them had become like a family. They were tied to one another, the group's aims had become his.

For now his goal—more a commitment he had made to Dangler—was to help these Nazis to travel to Brownsville. He had promised that.

After tugging the door open enough to squeeze through, he dropped to the stone ballast below. A glance beneath showed their train stood at the edge of the yard. He turned around and headed towards a string of cars two tracks away. A glance back at the train they had come in on showed some activity at its tail end. There an engine appeared to be coupling additional cars

In El Paso they had been fortunate to run across the boozy hobo who had ferreted out the correct train to put them on their way here. He doubted such a stroke of luck would again occur. He was, in all likelihood, going to have to speak to one of the yardmen.

After crabbing between the wheels of several trains he came to a short chain of flat cars. Two men in overalls stood near a switch talking. He nervously approached them.

"Hey, guys, I'm new here. The boss told me to report for work on the southbound. Know where it is?"

The two workers stared him. One said, "Tell you what. Wait here with Freddy, I'll go find out for you?" The man hurried off, disappearing around the line of cars.

"First day, huh?" Freddy asked.

"Yup."

"Been with the line for long?"

"Nope. How 'bout you?" He clasped trembling hands behind his back.

"Just since the war started. Got on when most of the gang went into the service. Bad leg kept me out—had polio as a kid."

Across the yard Mark saw the fellow who had gone in search of information returning accompanied by a man in a business suit. He panicked, stepping away from Freddy.

"Hey, where are you going, bub." Freddy grabbed at him, but he broke free.

He ran back towards the train they had arrived on. After passing through a string of cars, he detoured down the line. He hoped to lose the pursuers first, so as not to lead those chasing him to the others.

While sprinting along the length of a train, he glanced over his shoulder. Freddy emerged from between two cars. The yardman started in Mark's direction, crippling along and not making very good progress. Mark wove through the remaining ranks of cars not seeing anyone.

After reaching his train he rushed down its far side. Several cars bore Spanish words and lettering which contained the logotype "N de M." He wanted to believe they were rolling stock of the Mexican railroads.

When he reached the boxcar containing the others, he banged on the closed door. It opened. Dangler and Thael hauled him aboard. The door slammed shut.

"What did you find out?" Dangler asked.

"I think we're on a train heading to the border." He heaved in air, too winded to answer further. Seconds later he panted, "They're chasing me."

Dangler eased back the door, leaning out far enough to see both ends of their train. His body snapped back inside. "You're right. A man is checking along the line."

Thael joined Dangler and him at the door and started barking orders.

"Stark you get back outside and lure that guy over here. Don't go to him. When he sees you just stay right in front of the door. He'll come to you. Try to get him near enough I can reach him."

He looked to Dangler who confirmed Thael's instructions with a nod.

Thael shoved him out of the boxcar. He crashed into the ground on hands and knees. By the time he looked up, Freddy was moving towards him.

"You, there," Freddy called as he hobbled closer, "come here."

He remained crouched on the roadbed until Freddy was only steps away, then stood and faced the boxcar. The man's attention went to the door, undoubtedly looking for accomplices. A short man, Freddy's head was only inches above the floor of the car when he poked it into the door's slit.

Thael's foot slammed down on the skull. As Freddy slumped Oster's hand reached through the door and grabbed the straps of the man's coveralls. Mark thought they were going to drag the yardman into the car. But as Oster held the unconscious Freddy in position, Thael's shoe stomped brutally onto the head again. Then the foot rose for another strike.

"Stop!" he screamed. The fellow was out cold, maybe worse. There was no need to keep on punishing him.

Thael's cocked leg froze. Oster's grip relaxed. Freddy crumpled onto the tracks beneath the train. He stepped near and knelt over him. He heard a moan.

Energy rumbled down the line as an engine bumped into the string and coupled up with the cars.

"What are we going to do with him?" he yelled into the boxcar. No answer. "Come on, you guys, this train is about to roll. Someone at least help me drag him off the tracks. He's still alive."

The train shivered with movement again, this time in the opposite direction. He knew from the last few days aboard that the engine struggled to get the cars in motion.

He stepped to the door, intending on challenging Dangler. Suddenly Dangler's hands pinned his arms. The train jerked ahead, he lost his footing. An instant later Oster and Thael yanked him within the car. Both men restrained him.

"The man's lying on the tracks. He'll die if we don't drag him clear," he pleaded.

The car continued to inch slowly along. He managed to peer out the door. The wheels closed in on the cripple. Freddy had regained consciousness but remained immobile. Terror-filled eyes stared up, begging him for help.

The iron wheel neatly severed the torso. A bloody, fleshy blob containing body innards and overalls rotated up at him. On the next turn of the metal disk only red stained cloth remained. On the next the material had disappeared. He vomited.

Dangler and Thael yanked him away, slamming shut the door. He tried to break free but Oster pressed him onto the floor.

Mark started awake. Dusky dawn light filtered into the adobe shack's interior. The image of the crippled man cleaved in half by the shiny wheels, his guts spilling on the gravel roadbed, dimmed.

His feet swung off the lower bunk. Once upright, he turned, finding Klare's face inches from his. She slept in the upper bunk. Covered by a white sheet, she had apparently stripped off her clothing during the humid night. The cotton hinted at the form beneath. He resisted an urge to touch her, to smooth the ruby red hair spiky from sleep. Before his desire boiled out of control, he headed for the swing in the yard.

Yesterday evening he had walked back to this deserted house in a funk. The nearness of the train's wheels grinding past the grocery store rekindled his shame and disgust at himself and the Nazis for killing the crippled Freddy.

Soon a meal of scrambled eggs and tortillas had come forth. In the evening's coolness, side by side on the swing, their conversation rambled. The images of the dead railroad employee eventually dimmed. Before long they tittered about past escapades. Such lightheartedness had been a rarity in his life in recent months.

This woman was setting off startling emotions such as he had never experienced before. Was she reflecting his attentions only because of her needy situation, or were her feelings veering beyond that? At this point he didn't care.

It was so wonderful to be away from Dangler and the Nazis. He wished they could stay on in this little home for a time, so he could put his thoughts in order.

Eventually their conversation eased into a comfortable companionship as they enjoyed the starry night before climbing into the bunk beds. He had slept until the train nightmare awakened him.

About sunrise, still sitting in the swing, hands cupped his shoulders. Startled from dark thoughts, he twisted around. Like a gowned goddess from some long ago civilization, Klare stood behind him draped in the bed sheet.

"I washed my underclothing in the sink." She shrugged open-palmed to explain the sheet. "I couldn't stand them any longer. They aren't dry yet."

"I wish I'd thought to do that."

"There's another sheet inside," she giggled, before settling in so close on the swing that their thighs touched.

"When are you going to get your immigration papers back in order?" He draped his arm along the seat back, not quite brave enough to touch her.

"I'm not certain" She sat quietly for a few seconds, before turning to face him. "I have not been truthful about what's going on. I said I was an alien—that much is true. What I didn't tell you is that I came into the US illegally. I don't have a visa to renew. If I try to get one now they'll deport me."

What she had just related was technically truthful. When the ship from Costa Rica reached the US, the lack of documentation had been one of the pretenses that the authorities had used to detain them. Of course, Mark would probably assume she meant she had crossed the border illegally, just as many Mexicans did every day.

"I guess that's breaking the law?" he said with some skepticism.

"The reason I'm staying clear of the airport is that a man was out there asking questions." She omitted mention of the second encounter with the stranger at the hotel.

"So, what happens next?" Mark asked

"What do you want to happen next?"

He ignored the coy invitation.

"You could just slip back into Mexico, right?"

"I'd rather not. I'm happy where I am right now." She looped an arm through his, snuggling close.

Mark realized were on the threshold of deepening their relationship. Was he ready to tumble over that cliff? Did he owe Klare truthfulness about himself before she committed to him? He needed to think.

"I'm going to the canal to rinse myself, maybe my clothes, too," he said.

"I'd be happy to wash them for you."

Soon he had removed his Levis and shirt, handing them to Klare. He pulled on his boots and headed down the path to the canal in his undershorts, a towel he had found in the shack slung over a shoulder.

# Chapter 56

"Klare, I'm back," Mark called when he returned to the house following a long, thoughtful soak. He noticed his outer clothing dried on a line.

He went inside. Klare napped on the lower bunk. The sheet she had wrapped up in earlier had worked loose, revealing a comely bosom. He knew he should step back outside and awaken her from there, but for a few quaking heartbeats he took in her fullness.

Her green eyes opened, her head rolled in his direction. Slowly she covered herself. "Feeling better?"

He was embarrassed to have been caught peeping at her. He was also uncertain what to do next, considering Klare's casual reaction to his seeing her nakedness. He could only nod before retreating towards the door.

"Come on back in," she called.

He continued on out to the swing. One thing that had become obvious was a swelling need to be with her. She appeared to be inviting him to become her lover. The gloom he had worn since internment had lifted.

Again swathed in the white cotton sheet, she came to the swing, snuggling near him. She took his hand.

"You wanted to know what I planned to do next," she eventually said. "I think I'll lie low, probably stay right here until the owners show up and tell me to leave. I can't go back to the airport or my room. After a few days the police may think I've gone elsewhere. Then I may try to head further north up along the border."

Their eyes locked. Her hand moved to his thigh. "You want to stay with me?"

"I've, rather we've, got no money. How we gonna' eat."

"I'll bet with the shortage of workers we can go knock on any farmer's door and say we want day work. I'm sure you know a lot about those kinds of jobs."

"I know ranching, not about tending vegetables."

"We can learn. They don't pay much, but it will buy us some time . . . to decide . . . about things . . . about what we're going to do."

She had not said the words but he recognized she was asking if they might as a couple decide to stay together.

"How long you going to be hanging around this town, anyway?" She asked solemnly.

"I don't know. A few more days, I reckon."

"Then what will you do?"

He shrugged.

"So, can you stay here with me until you shove off? I'd like that." Milky white teeth flashed from her smile.

"I...I guess I could." He felt excitement rise on his cheeks, his heart thrummed.

She kissed him on the lips. When it ended she placed his hand against her breast.

"We Europeans are a lot more open."

He trembled with anticipation as she led him inside. She eased onto the lower bunk, scooting towards the wall to allow room for him. They lie facing one another, body heat radiating through the sheet. Eyes closed, she waited for him to begin.

A virgin, he had in a sensual way kissed only two girls in his life. He hesitated.

She kissed him wetly. He responded to her probing tongue, wrapping her in his arms. Their lips remained locked as he found her supple bottom. Her thigh moved to massage his manhood. When his fingers went to the knotted sheet, she broke the kiss and spread her arms, luxuriating in his lust.

His heartbeat surged at seeing her womanliness.

Her lolling head bared the eroticism of his touch.

Then she boldly stroked him, signaling her desire. He wriggled out of his shorts. She moved on to her back in the center of the bed. When they coupled her legs rose to enfold him.

She led him through the rituals of mating until his cravings at last were slaked.

"I'm going to go hunt up our things. They should be dry by now." He couldn't suppress a snicker. They'd been at each other for hours.

He pulled on his underwear and stepped out to retrieve their clothing. Once dressed, he placed her garments near the door. "Your clothes are dry. I'm going to stretch my legs," he called inside.

Was Klare embarrassed at their frolicking? He was not. Though, treading in unfamiliar territory left him uncertain how to behave towards her at this moment. That situation added to all the other vagaries surrounding his life.

The previous hours had been one of life's passages. He was a different person after the lovemaking. As he walked he thought of Klare and all the things he wanted to do for her and with her. His mind buzzed with dreams of a future.

An airplane engine roared overhead. The shadow flitted past him. It was the B-29 carrying the jet engine. He had not thought of Dangler since Klare invited him into her bed. Now the treason involving the Nazis poked him in the eyes.

His mind returned to the cold winter day when the government man, Mr. Audrey, had shown up at the ranch. Until that visit he had been fairly sure of what was wrong and what was right.

The entire trial and imprisonment of Opa had been wrong. In his mind there was no doubt that the government had overstepped its proper role in regulating civil rights, even if a war was underway. When Oma went to the camp to join Opa, his world collapsed.

In the beginning Mr. Audrey had seemed to sympathize with him about the demise of the family and the ranch. Then the conversation grew confusing.

He grew frustrated and stomped out into the yard. With all his might he heaved some downed limbs around. It felt good to smash something, anything. About that time Mr. Audrey called to him from the front porch, asking him to come back inside and talk.

As he made his way back to the ranch house, he worried that if the grimacing government man in the brown derby hat said the wrong thing he might slug him. He had sat down near the fire and tucked his hands under his thighs—a reminder not to dig himself in deeper with the Justice Department—while he listened to the visitor.

"So Mark, you know that your draft number is coming up. And I am sorry to have to say that you have a reputation as a troublemaker that'll follow you into the army. My question is, would you consider another form of government service?" Audrey leaned back and waited.

"I can't answer that question. I've no idea what you are talking about."

"Let me tell you about a position working for my department. It would be in detainment camps. We occasionally need outside laborers. There's every chance you'd get assigned to Crystal City where your grandparents are."

In retrospect he should have given more weight to the word "chance," but even a small prospect of reuniting with Oma and Opa had his mind whirring.

"We need certain skills. Being raised on a farm like this," Audrey spread an arm to indicate the ranch, "I suppose you know your way around a hammer and saw?"

"Of course." He was not an accomplished carpenter. But under the circumstances he would have sworn to Audrey he was a jeweler, even if he'd never done more than wind a watch, if that was what it took to get the assignment he craved.

"We have individuals doing that kind of maintenance. They build and repair structures in the various camps. The pay isn't much. Then again, an Army 'buck' private's isn't, either. It kinda' works out the same either way. You get government room and board and a little spending money."

"Sounds like I'd be living like an detainee?"

"Yep. That's the way it works."

"Where do they stay—in barracks?"

"At Crystal City they got apartments for the couples, every few families share a kitchen. You'd be welcome to squeeze in with your folks."

Audrey answered several more questions about the position before he began eyeing his wristwatch.

"What'd you think, son?"

"I can't say just yet. I've got this place and a herd of livestock to look after. I've been trying to square things away around here. But it may take some more time."

"Time—that's one luxury you don't have. I drove out from San Antonio because this position is going to get filled fast once word leaks out."

He hated having to make snap decisions.

"There's many young men who'd prefer to be working in the camps rather than shouldering a rifle. I knew of your case—thought you and yours had got a raw deal—and felt it might be something that could turn out good for you."

Audrey seemed sincere.

"But if I can't get a commitment today, then all deals are off. There are powerful people who will 'pull strings' to get their sons or relatives into a cushy, safe position before the draft catches them."

As Audrey spoke Mark considered where he stood in finishing arrangements to wind down the ranch's operations. Those affairs could probably be settled without delay.

"Okay, Mr. Audrey, count me in." The prospect of seeing his family had been overpowering.

"I'll need you to report in to Ft. Sam Houston within two days."

By the time he arrived at the government post he had realized that part of the motivation from the Justice Department in proposing the position was that it allowed them to keep an eye on him. Military service would have been no different. If he tried to get into the Army and was turned down due to health issues, he would have missed the opportunity to be sent to Crystal City.

Within a few days of signing up he learned another reason the authorities wanted someone such as him on the inside. In the camps a German-speaking American could eavesdrop by playing dumb and communicating only in English. This allowed the guards one more method of keeping tabs on what, if any, plots were brewing.

His duty, they had told him, was to report anything suspicious. Although distraught with his own government, when he first went to work for the Justice Department he had considered Nazis the enemy and he intended to spy on them.

As it turned out, he never made it to where his grandparents were held. That was probably not an assignment the government had ever seriously contemplated.

Soon after signing on he was transferred to Fort Stanton in New Mexico. Upon arrival there the officer in charge interviewed him. Assignment to the stables followed.

The first and only escape attempt he stumbled on was Dangler's. By then he had been behind barbed wire for some time. Subtle changes had come over him.

His attitudes towards the Germans who he lived with had softened. As an outcast from American society, these aliens had now become his only companions. The last vestiges of normalcy vanished from his life. Among these dissidents he was not the misfit he had begun to see himself as. Furthermore, Dangler's approach provided a means to escape from unjust imprisonment into which he had been mislead.

The actuality of the cripple's murder beneath the train wheels had blunted freedom's appeal. He'd never considered someone might die during their flight. Then Dangler had told him about the jet engine and how it was part of a scheme to shorten the war. All he had to do was ask some questions.

At that point he became uncertain how to proceed. He wanted most of all to be free of the Germans. But he had been drawn into Dangler's scheme. He soon determined that trying to speed the Nazis out of the country was his best option.

When he began mixing with typical Americans here, his perspective altered. Nazis were, indeed, the enemy. His time with Klare and away from Dangler's sway had concreted the reversal in attitude.

Until yesterday the loneliness he had experienced following his grandparents departure, had seemed manageable. The New Mexico camp, populated with strangers, were just people he lived with. Close bonds with even one of them had never developed.

Being with Klare had, however, reminded him how much he wanted and needed emotional ties in his life. He probably didn't love her. Could you be in love with someone you hardly knew? That did not detract from what they had shared, from the promise of what might come.

The opportunity for a chance to have a relationship with her, to spend days or even weeks with her beckoned. They could go underground together in Mexico. She'd teach him enough Spanish to get work. Mexico had many ranches. He knew how to handle livestock.

Would the US authorities aggressively pursue him south of the border? How deep was the trouble he was in for knowingly aiding Dangler up to this point?

The Justice Department had warned that anything he learned through eavesdropping on prisoners was to be reported to them immediately. What about a claim he had gotten into this mess because he was attempting to discover the details of Dangler's espionage by participating as an insider? No, that was too farfetched.

Could he make things right with the government if he dissuaded the Nazis from going forward? If Dangler did not carry out his attempted heist, just disappeared abroad along with his team, then no one need ever know that they had contemplated anything beyond escape. That was not nearly as serious as espionage. The best course for everyone would be for the Germans to go quietly into Mexico.

He could not control what Dangler would decide, but he must try to persuade him to leave the United States immediately. Regardless of what the Nazis chose to do, he was finished with any illegal activities. A burden came off Mark's shoulders. At last a path forward materialized. He hurried back to Klare.

"Darling, I've got to go into town for a bit. But I'll be back directly. We'll just take it a day at a time."

She hugged him. "That's exactly what I want."

"It's pretty sudden for us. I don't know how it will turn out, but let's see."

"I'll be right here." She pressed her body to his and breathed in his ear, "waiting for you."

Their embrace continued. Holding her made him think of the homecoming after he had spoken to Dangler. The sooner he took care of that matter, the sooner he could return. He eased free.

# Chapter 57

Black lounged along a water-filled ditch. Having shed the cowboy boots, his aching feet soaked in the water. In need of security, a hand clasped the upright post anchoring the minuscule dock. Born and raised in the desert, he panicked once water wetted his calves.

Yesterday he had spoken to Max Moore, who was connected to Claire Fisher. Following that interview he got his first solid lead through the Mexican shoe shine boy. There was something going on between Stark and Fisher. That could not be good.

First thing this morning he had asked Couzzins to check her name through the FBI records. Several hours later Black telephoned the agent. At that point in time nothing of notability had turned up on a woman named Claire Fisher, other than the fact that the United States had never issued a pilot's license to such a person.

Better suited psychologically to action, he had given up on waiting around the hotel or airport for either Stark or Fisher to possibly show up. Couzzins had arranged to have both locations covered by the police.

He had returned to the area near the airport where the Mexican kid's contacts with Claire had taken place. There was no reason to believe the two were still in this locale, but checking here seemed a better option than random roaming.

The locale contained small dwellings dotting rural lanes and shacks tucked in amongst the cultivated fields. He began his search, questioning anyone he came upon. No one recalled seeing a strange man and woman in the vicinity. Several of the houses were deserted. That made the structures potentially useful as hiding places.

Now the hours spent hiking across fields checking these shanties had taken a toll on his feet. He had decided to refresh them in the irrigation water.

Out of the corner of his eye he spied Mark Stark coming down a path on the opposite side of the canal.

Stark saw him at about the same time and sprinted off through an open field. The canal bank was steep. Although the distance across was only about ten feet, the depth was unknown. Black struggled into his boots, heading back along the waterway to a crossing some distance away.

By the time he made it to the other side and backtracked to where Stark had left the ditch, their was no sign of the kid. Fortunately, the field was newly plowed. He carefully examined the ridges of the furrows, eventually picking up the trail. He followed the footprints across a wide, cultivated space, his anger and elation both ballooning.

Dense foliage bordered the far side of the field. He could find no signs in the earth indicating Stark had turned left or right at this barrier. Evidently, the boy had gone into the brush.

Although clad in boots, he worried about snakes slithering within the tall grass. He pushed into the crush of palm fronds, thorny shrubs, and cactus. Within a few yards the jungle thinned, revealing a lake. The bank sloped gradually.

A non-swimmer, he edged in up to his ankles, then his knees, and finally his waist, all the while stomping down a lifetime dread of deep water. He vowed not to venture further. While slogging across the mucky bottom, he kept a wary eye on the water depth, which remained constant.

The lake was narrow—fifty yards at its widest. It curled out of sight on either end. He plodded ahead. When midway across, out of the corner of an eye, he saw what at first seemed to be a log slide from the bank into the murky water. Then another swished in. His heart surged as he thrashed back to the entry point.

This was his first experience with alligators. He had only seen pictures of them before. Not sure if the scaly man-eaters cruising the water were capable of sneaking up and snaring prey in the heavy undergrowth, he retreated to the open field.

Stark had evaded him this time. But he now had an idea where the enemy hid. He would continue to patrol the area. There would be no escape the next time he found any of them.

# Chapter 58

"Where the hell have you been?" Dangler bellowed as he shot up from a chair. Mark had just stepped into the apartment.

"I ran into some trouble."

He still could not believe Black had managed to track them here. The chase through the lake had given him an idea for embellishing the argument for ending the mission, though.

"Oh yeah, what kind of trouble?" Dangler faced him, arms cocked, hands resting on his hips.

"They're onto you, Dieter."

"What are you talking about?"

"Remember that Border Patrol guard we tied to the trees back on the Indian trail in New Mexico? Well, he's here. I was coming over to see you when he spotted me."

"When was that?" Dangler, who still fumed, shot back.

He launched into the lie concocted on his way to this meeting. "Black caught me yesterday. Took me right to the police station."

Dangler stared at him, frowning. "So that's where you've been?"

"Yes, the police questioned me for hours."

"Did they ask about the rest of us?" Dangler raked an anxious hand across his high forehead.

"I told them we split up right after we got to El Paso. I don't think they believed me. I was real nervous. I'm not a very good liar. You know that."

"It does not look to me like they worked you over." Dangler cocked an eyebrow.

"This is America. We don't do things like that here."

"Do you think the police know what we're planning?"

"Yes, because they let something slip out. I don't think they intended to say what they did in front of me."

"What'd you mean?"

"One of the cops came in and said to the others something like, 'okay, that's it for here, they want him in San Antonio because of the airplane business.'"

Dangler turned away, staring out a window, apparently digesting what he had just learned.

"I don't see how you can go ahead with it, Dieter."

"What?" Dangler faced him again.

"They will have people all over the place, everyone will be on alert. Especially now that I've got away from them."

"How'd you manage that?"

"They loaded me in a car to drive to San Antonio. Just outside of town the car got a flat. The two of them—the driver and my guard—set about changing the tire. I had to get out of the vehicle so they could lift it. While they were both struggling with the wheel I ran."

Dangler inspected his soaked clothing circumspectly.

"I went into one of these odd looking lakes during the chase." He had lost Black by slogging through waist-deep water.

"We've come so far." Dangler thought a moment. "I'm going through with it."

"You may be going to try something, but I'm not having anything to do with it," he said emphatically.

Dangler shook his head. "No guts—just like Thael says?"

"Getting arrested scared me. What you're planning is suicide. I don't like turning against my country, anyway. I'm finished with this crazy scheme. You should be, too. You and the others have got a good chance of getting away, getting back to Germany, if you will just take it."

"Let's sit down a minute. You are obviously upset. Arrest, interrogation, on your way to who knew what kind of torture." Dangler's voice took on a sympathetic tenor.

"I don't want to sit. I just want to be done with this mess I'm in."

"Do you remember why you joined us?" Dangler asked patiently.

"Of course."

"Now tell me, what's changed since we got out of prison?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You were unhappy then, right?"

He hadn't expected this turn in the conversation. He nodded slightly, appearing to be listening, but he had already decided.

"But you aren't mad now?" Dangler asked.

"Not so much. Things are different."

"You will be even angrier than before after you hear what I'm about to tell you."

"Listen, Dieter, stop trying to get me to change my mind." He stood, starting for the door.

"Your grandmother is dead," Dangler said after him.

His head felt as if it were going to explode, vertigo erupted. He sank onto a nearby couch.

"President Roosevelt—your nation—they murdered her. Your Oma died in that camp they put her in," Dangler said gently.

Denial kicked in. "How could you possibly know what has taken place in a prison hundreds of miles from here? We're fugitives on the run, lying low. You haven't talked to anyone, except those of us in the group, since we left the camp."

"I have a confession," Dangler moved onto the seat next to him, draped an arm around his shoulder. "I've known about your grandmother for some time, from before we escaped."

Fighting an urge to punch Dangler, he stood up and strode across the room. What the Nazi said couldn't be true. "If you knew she was dead why didn't you tell me?"

"As I think about it now, my keeping quiet was a mistake. I should have spoken up. I started to tell you about what happened to her more than once, but kept putting it off.

"Frankly, I wasn't sure how you'd react. I was selfish. I need you. As soon as we were finished with the mission I intended to speak to you. If I had told you sooner what could you have done, anyway. You can't go rushing into the camp, unless you want to end up in prison, or worse."

"I don't believe you. You're just saying this about Oma to rile me up, keep me with you."

"Settle down, Mark. Listen to what I'm about to—"

"Why didn't I hear, get some type of notification? I should have."

"That's a question better put to your government because you sure should have. She must have died while we were at Ft. Stanton."

He took a calming breath, wanting the details.

"What I can tell you is that when we were in New Mexico a man transferred in from the same camp where your grandparents were. All the Germans lived together there, as you probably know.

"By that time you and I had chatted some. I wanted to learn a little more about your background before letting you in on my plans. I inquired if he knew of your family. He connected the two of you through the last name, then mentioned she had died."

"Who is this guy, and how come he didn't tell me himself?"

"His name is Pohl. He's a troublemaker."

"Never heard of him."

"He was in another barracks. We worked in the laundry together. I told Pohl you and I were friends; that because of our closeness I should be the one to give you the news. Shortly after that they moved Pohl on to another facility—a true prison I think."

Oma dead! Was that possible? When she failed to return to the ranch after the Christmas visit with Opa, he had wondered if she had remained in the internment camp voluntarily—to stand beside her husband. That happened in some cases he had discovered. The first camp he worked in had two wives who had followed their husbands into confinement.

Even if Oma stayed willingly, if they had not unfairly imprisoned Opa she would never have gone there. Although Oma was elderly with some health issues, when he had put her on the bus to the camp she was spry enough to tend her hens and handle the household chores. No, she couldn't be dead!

"Pohl said your grandmother became very upset, after she arrived at the camp. She was distressed about her husband's mental condition. She had a stroke, or some sort of attack. They took her to the camp clinic. The rumor, according to Pohl, was that if the guards had transferred her to a real hospital in town she probably would have lived."

"You're saying this just to keep me with you, after I said I was dropping out."

"I can't prove any of this. But are you willing to throwaway a chance to shorten your Opa's time in that prison. That's the purpose of my plan—shorten the war, free the prisoners. Your grandfather is an old man, He might die in that prison, too.

He sat silently, torn between love for his grandfather and love for Klare.

"In the next few hours Mark Stark is going to have to make a decision," Dangler said softly. "Do you want to be haunted for the rest of your by not saving your grandfather when you had the chance?"

# Chapter 59

When Mark entered the small hovel they had been sharing his expression telegraphed to Klare that he was troubled. A grave frown etched his face.

"I can't be with you like we talked about," he began almost tearfully.

The statement rattled her. He had departed several hours ago, saying he needed to go into town to take care of a matter.

In the hours since they had separated, her imaginings had run wild— a life together, living in the US, being a part of a family again. Maybe, if her parents lived through deportment back to Germany, they could even join them after the war?

"Why? What's happened? Things were all set just a few hours ago."

"I know. I'm sorry. More sorry then you probably realize."

He bit back an emotion, but his body still quaked.

She took his hands in hers. "Let's talk about it. Tell me what's come up."

"It's not something I want to talk about."

She wondered if her wantonness had been too overt. Possibly setting off doubts. "Is it about me?"

"No. Nothing at all to do with you."

"I realize our lovemaking just popped up out of nowhere, but that doesn't mean I took what happened lightly," she needed to assure him of her true-heartedness.

"Some of the things I said . . . well . . . I knew what was about to overcome us," she stumbled on. "I guess it was my attempt to say that I wanted you. I don't jump into bed with just any man. So you know, though, I've been in love once before; we were lovers."

"I'll never forget you, Klare."

"Please tell me what's going on."

"I can't talk about it."

Had she misread him? Maybe he was the typical male who would say and do anything for sex? That did not seem like Mark. He had come across as a far more genuine person.

She had in reality initiated the intimacy. It had to have been his first experience. So why had he returned? One last fling? Anger erupted.

"So why'd you come back—wanted me in bed one more time before you ran off?" Her eyes teared.

"Figured I was easy!" She shook her hands free. "Go, then, just go! You've had your fun with me. What is it you cowboys say, 'Put another notch on your gun?'"

"It's not that at all."

He slumped onto the edge of the bed. "I'm not sure I can explain what is driving me. I'm mad. I'm ashamed. I don't want to do what I have to do. Still, I have to do it."

He was shaking and flushed. His reaction resurrected old doubts in her mind.

"Mark, are you in some kind of trouble?"

His head dropped into his hands.

She argued on. "I've wondered about you since the day we went flying. Wondered about all those questions you put to me about that top-secret bomber."

Similar family experiences—losing everyone they loved—had bound them together. That allowed each of them to grasp the emptiness in the other. She did not want to lose him for so many reasons.

Mark refused to look at her, but said, "I got some news that's changed everything."

"What news?" she asked gently.

"I couldn't leave without saying good bye. There's also something else I need to tell you. There's a Border Patrolman around here looking for me. He's probably looking for you, too, since we've been hanging around together."

Her breath caught, a moment later she decided. "Let's just leave here this minute. I've got nothing but what I'm wearing to worry about."

"You probably do need to be on your way," he said. "I have another matter to attend to."

"What other matter? Like blowing up that bomber?"

He gaped at her.

She had blurted out the harebrained charge to startle him into honesty. His silence confirmed the unthinkable truth of her words. She had not meant to be so abrupt. Although thoughts of evildoing had been in the back of her mind when she sent the note to the FBI. That was, of course, before she had gotten to know him.

"That's insane, Mark!" Was this good-natured man even capable of espionage? "If you are serious about sabotage, you are making a terrible mistake."

"So say you." He stood up, turned away.

"You've got to tell me what this is about."

"They've killed my Oma." His voice broke.

She gasped. "Who killed her?"

"Roosevelt and the whole damn country he now rules." When he turned to face her his nostrils flared. "'Fuhrer Roosevelt is no better than Hitler. He's turned America into what Nazi Germany is."

She had lived through experiences that he did not have an inkling about. Maybe relating her situation would help him put things in perspective.

"I need to tell you something. I'm Jewish—that's as good as a death sentence from the Nazis. I'm also a fugitive from the US government. I'll not go into the details. It's enough to know that all of my family left Germany, only to end up in an detention camp here. I ran off."

"So, what's wrong with escaping from unjust punishment?"

"Nothing, and I'd do it again. I only mentioned that because I've seen both nations operating under the stress of war. What each of these governments do is damning for both the countries."

He appeared calmer. She believed he was prepared to listen.

"The world at war is not a pretty place." She stepped across the room to lean against the sink facing him. "When the fighting began any number of powerful, influential Americans became trapped in Germany. The US was willing to offer anything, as it turned out, to bring them home.

"Hitler was willing to negotiate the release of the Americans. For his part, Hitler—that monster—wanted the return of certain Germans.

"Roosevelt was pressured not to send back people from the United States who did not want to go. To fulfill the exchange quotas those of us with German roots, who had immigrated to Latin America and were then deported here, became pawns."

"That's how you got here?"

"Yes. We had no legal status, no powerful political friends, to prevent our deportation to America. And now we have no way to prevent our deportation back to Germany. Do you know what fate awaits those 'enemies of the Reich' that are sent back to the Fatherland?"

"You don't mean . . . ?

"I do. And what's worse in my family's case is that we are Jews and my father is a radical communist. I'm certain many folks like us have been sent back there and put to death. There were letters that got to the internment camp that said exactly that. They were written by relatives of those deported who had remained in Germany. They came to family members still imprisoned here."

Mark's head shook in disbelief.

"So certain was I that such a fate awaited our family, that I abandoned my mother and father and escaped the camp. My parents would not believe me, refused to leave with me. I pray they have not been sent back."

"America should be damned for that," Mark said, kneading his knuckles.

"Yes, it should. Future generations will learn the details and will condemn the behavior of its leaders."

"I am so sorry about your parents, just as I am sorry about my Oma and Opa. The US government is running wild."

"I can't stand here and tell you that what is happening in America today is right. It's not. Both countries have many sins to answer for. Both are imprisoning innocent people. Germany is executing them. I'll choose America over the Nazis any day."

She walked to the bed and stood before a shamefaced Mark.

"I hope you'll consider that before you do something against your country," she said softly.

"I've got to think." He stalked out the door.

# Chapter 60

"I just saw a group of suspicious foreigners. They were near the south shore of the Brownsville Ship Channel!"

Jupp listened to Thael bawl into the handset of a telephone. Moments earlier the American Nazi had telephoned the South Padre Island Coast Guard Station.

"You better send some of your boys there to check them out. Could be sabotage."

With the message delivered Willi abruptly disconnected. The two of them mounted bicycles, pedaling towards the waterway.

The plan to entice a patrol boat to the lonely south coast of the canal relied on the belief that the authorities considered the likelihood of sabotage to be substantial.

The fear was that a party of enemy agents could land on the deserted Gulf of Mexico beaches nearby. A short hike brought them to miles of uninhabited channel shoreline from which to mount an attack. The sinking of a vessel in the confining passage, which was a mere 60-meters wide at points, would close the port for months. That would interrupt the flow of war-critical agricultural products.

Dangler had approved this plan to pirate a military craft for the journey across the Gulf of Mexico to the Nazi resupply base. Luring the boat away from the station made it easier to overpower the crew. The muddle surrounding a missing boat might also shield their escape from the enemy for a few more hours.

The first hint of success following Thael's call came as dusk settled on the desert landscape near the waterway. The easterly breeze carried sounds of a marine motor.

Jupp had expected an engine of less than 100 horsepower to propel the craft. This exhaust seemed far louder than that of a six-cylinder engine. Such a powerful motor would make escaping silently down the channel with the jet engine parts more difficult. Once in the open ocean it would be an advantage.

The white-hulled boat came into view. With both bow and stern tapering to points, it looked to be over thirty-five feet in length. Festooned with lifelines, the high sides made it seaworthy. There appeared to be three decked-over cabins.

The helmsman conned the boat from a station behind the amidships cabin. This vessel would certainly be capable of voyaging to the Yucatan Peninsula.

Armed with a well-honed butcher's knife, Thael took his position on top of a hillock. Profiled against the setting sun, the Coast Guard crew should surely see him.

Now it appeared the sailors had picked up the silhouette. The engine revved as the craft angled towards Thael. From behind a thorny cactus Jupp watched Thael hustle away from the channel, eventually disappearing among the scrub brush.

The boat's bow nudged up on the sandy bank. Only two men appeared topside. The mate leaped from the high bow and fastened a line to a nearby shrub. The coxswain went aft, tossing an anchor over the stern to hold the vessel in position. The mate, with a carbine slung on his shoulder, set off in Thael's direction.

He expected that Thael—based upon the tales of him leading the New Mexico Border Patrol on a merry chase—would not allow the pursuer to catch up until they were well away from the boat.

Rifle in hand, the remaining boatman mounted the forward cuddy cabin roof. Within easy range of the gun, Jupp moved warily away from the cluster of shielding cactus. He fished the electric torch from his pocket, covered the lens with a handkerchief, and switched the light on. He aimed the beam towards the boat.

The sailor on guard did not react, evidently missing the light. He repeated the clue, hoping to lure the coxswain off the boat. On the third try the man saw it. Leaping from the bow, the coxswain splashed down at the water's edge.

He left the glowing flashlight on the ground. Then he backtracked several steps on the path he believed the sailor would tread, hunkering down behind a clump of brush.

Within moments the coxswain stole by, heading for the light. Jupp trailed him across the sandy soil, which cushioned his steps. When the sailor stooped to retrieve the torch he sprang. The cosh—an old sock stuffed with cherry-sized iron balls—bashed into his opponent's skull. The man toppled forward either stunned or unconscious.

It took but moments to truss the man hand and foot using a length of cord he had previously belted about his waist for this purpose. With the sailor gagged, he grabbed the gun and torch and hustled back to the boat. Shortly thereafter Thael showed up. He asked about the now bloodied shirt. Busied with rinsing his stained hands, Thael ignored the question.

They needed to conceal the boat so a passing vessel would not chance upon it. At the push of the starter button the engine rumbled to life. Thael went forward with an electric torch, shining it along the shore.

An eroded wash not much wider than the rescue boat's ten-foot beam appeared. He nosed the shallow-draft craft, designed to operate in surf, within the defile. An onboard fireman's axe allowed them to cut brush with which to secrete the inlet. With the boat hidden, they were soon pedaling the six miles of country lanes to meet up with the others.

# Chapter 61

When Jupp and Thael arrived, Dangler wanted to hug them. Athwart the handlebars of Jupp's bicycle were a rifle and an axe. Thael sported another rifle. Such weapons might be needed to neutralize any guards who watched over the hangar containing the turbine parts.

"I take it those guns mean you've succeeded?" Dangler asked Jupp as they made their way behind a lean-to that shielded them from the road.

"We've got the boat." Jupp slung a leg off the bike.

Peter Oster patted Jupp and Thael on the back.

"What do you think, can she handle us?" he asked.

"Seems a seaworthy enough vessel. She will meet our needs."

"Having the boat nailed down is a big relief. Now it's on to the next hurdle—finding a truck."

He was uncertain how much hauling capacity they would need. During a meeting with Putthammer before departing Berlin the scientist had pointed out on diagrams the components the inventors required.

If he was fortunate enough to find a disassembled jet engine on a workbench the parts would likely fit in a sedan's trunk. In the event they had to heist an entire engine that would require far more space, not to mention the necessity of manhandling a heavy object.

"I guess you know that out towards the water port there is nothing but farms," Jupp offered.

"Willi and Mark have mentioned that. We ought to be able to find a field truck there."

"I see Stark hasn't shown up yet," Thael spat. "I knew the 'baby' was going to let us down, Meister. Shoulda' let me take care of him."

"We'll go after a truck in a little while," he said, ignoring Thael's remark. "Let the farmers get well bedded down. Climb up in that wagon over there and try to rest for now."

He had listened skeptically to Mark's tale of police arrest and escape. It did not ring true. But he needed Mark's continued involvement. The man represented one-fifth of the squad, knew more about the layout of the area than anyone else.

A German JUMO engine weighed over 100 kilograms. No one was certain of the weight of the American version. If for no other reason, he might require Mark's help in muscling the jet onto the truck and later onto the boat.

Before he had broken the news to the boy that his grandmother had passed away in an internment camp, Mark had said he was quitting the team. Word of the death appeared to renew a level of commitment to the mission.

Hours ago Stark had departed after hearing of his grandmother's death, saying he was going back to the room he and Thael shared. Mark had claimed a need to clear out personal items and lie low until they rendezvoused here.

Time passed and he reluctantly accepted that Stark had deserted. He roused the others and they set off.

The ancient Mack truck they happened upon stood at the edge of an onion field. When Dangler walked around to the back, he discovered a scattering of vegetables on the bed.

Despite its pungent odor, the machine seemed to fit their requirements. The bed looked to be ten feet long with solid sideboards—perfect for shielding them from view. Parked far from any homes, they could probably spirit the tired machine away without being discovered.

"Anybody know anything about this monster?" His irritation that Stark had not shown up spiked. He had been relying on the farm kid to know how to operate the vehicle, which was so old a chain powered its rear axels.

"Let me take a look." Thael mounted the cab step. "I see a starter pedal on the floorboards."

Now they had only to get it firing. "Who can drive this thing?" he asked.

"That was supposed to be Stark's job, remember," Thael sneered.

Neither of the Oster brothers spoke up.

'Can you drive a car, Willi?" He figured that might shut Thael up.

"Ya, probably."

"Then get it running. The rest of us will ride in the back."

Apparently the owner had cared for the machine's innards better than he had for the dented, paint-faded exterior. The engine ground to life willingly. Along with Jupp and Peter, he gripped the sideboards, attempting to keep his footing among the onions as Thael jolted them towards an unknown destiny.

# Chapter 62

About the time Dangler's gang was nearing the airport, a pickup truck towing a large livestock trailer stopped before the main Fort Brown gate in downtown Brownsville.

From behind the wheel Mexican rebel Zarate observed a soldier snoozing in the tiny guard shack. He signaled a confederate in the trailer. The man removed the barrier at the back of the tow, then shooed a gaggle of some 20 billy goats off the trailer and into the street. Several of the creatures trotted off, others milled about near the entrance to the Army post.

Yesterday, when he found an alert from the German in the dead drop mailbox, his plan went into motion. He had scouted the ranches surrounding Brownsville, noting those with goat herds. Just after dark tonight a force of his Gold Shirts visited these ejidos, rustling the animals.

While pulling away from the post, he glimpsed the guard, startled to consciousness by the ruckus, rushing into the street. Rounding up the livestock ought to occupy the attention of the army for a while he chuckled.

If the operation went according to plan, a similar scene should be playing out with a second diversion underway in front of the police station across town.

Two more trailers had been dispatched to deposit scores of bleating ruminants at distant points around the airport; far from the hangar containing the jet engine. No doubt the MP's there would be chasing the critters for hours.

Zarate was pleased. He had been able to aid the Nazis, while putting his rebel compatriots at minimal risk of reprisal. He had not felt it necessary to seek approval of the "old women" who directed rebel affairs from afar in Mexico City. He hoped that, although each rancher might not get his original goats back, they would divide them up equitably once all had been corralled.

# Chapter 63

Thael had begun to master the pedals by the time the Mack truck reached the airport, Dangler noted with relief. Fortunately the vehicle's muffler was serviceable, allowing a stealthy approach.

The area near the runways seemed quiet. However, Dangler became aware of a couple of disturbances several blocks away on the other side of the complex. The still night carried the sounds of bleating goats mixed with human bawling and animated cursing. He suspected the Mexican Dorados had come through, creating this diversion.

Following his prior instructions, Thael halted the truck a block from their destination. He peered over the truck's side for his first view of the General Electric hangar. Lacking floodlights, patrol dogs, and machine gun nests, it appeared rather ordinary. Only a metal fence surrounding the perimeter hinted of its importance. A puny bulb lit the area around a guardhouse, which stood next to a wire-fenced entry gate.

After killing the engine, Thael stepped around to the truck's tail and said, "Hand me the cutters."

The original plan had Stark waiting in the cab while Thael made a preliminary foray into the hangar. A good plan, but fate had decided otherwise after Stark failed to show up.

"It looks quiet," he said. "I'm going to do the re-con myself. Willi, you'll have to stay with the truck. Be ready to drive the others away if an alarm sounds. If you don't see my signal that all is well, get moving and don't come back."

He grabbed the dikes and dropped to the ground. Streetlights punctured the night at random intervals along the road leading to the hangar. The cones of light did not reach the open ground on the far side of the pavement. He crept past the guardhouse and beyond the hangar.

No one had appeared to be inside the tiny sentry post as he passed by. Those charged with watching over the jet engine were lax. Within meters of one of America's mightiest weapons, security was virtually nonexistent. Could these novices be besting the German war machine?

Back under the cover of darkness he crossed the street, skulking towards the enclosure. Relying as much on feel as vision, he searched for any breaks along the barrier, but found none. He hefted the dikes.

In preparation for the foray, Thael had scoured several pawnshops and stores for the tool. He had also procured knifes, suitable for gutting animals, for each of them. These weapons seemed minimal, but they hoped to achieve their aims by stealth. Obtaining the two rifles and an axe from the sailors had been providential.

The bolt cutters made quick work of slitting the tin barrier. He widened the rent by bending back the metal. Then he wormed through. The hangar appeared deserted. No light seeped from beneath nor between the enormous sliding barn-style doors. He tugged at a one but the massive slab was far too large for one human to move. The only other entrance to the building he had spied was a standard-sized door in view of the gate sentries.

He was about to slip along the hangar and try the door when a uniformed soldier step from the guardhouse. A pistol strapped to his thigh, the man sauntered towards the hanger.

The guard's manner did not telegraph alarm. He eased back around to the other side of the building, and out through the opening in the wall.

Once back at the truck, he briefed the others before relating the plan. Thael raged at having to remain behind in the truck. The young Nazi's thirst for action had escalated as the mission took shape. Now the kid worried he might miss the bloodletting. He ultimately ordered Thael to shut up and do as told.

They helped Peter down from the high truck bed, then he and Jupp returned to the opening in the enclosure. Once through he led Jupp to a corner of the hangar where they could view the gate.

A couple of minutes later Peter came ambling along the street. As instructed, the ponderous man walked slowly by the gate. The guard stepped out of the gatehouse, then went back inside, reappearing a moment later. Had the sentry called for backup, was he finding someone to man the gate so he could investigate Peter?

The gate guard stayed focused on Peter, his attention distracted from the hangar. Jupp scurried towards the sentry. Dangler moved to the door. Just before he reached it another soldier emerged from the hangar, belting a pistol around his waist.

He had heard from the Mexican informant that at night two guards were assigned. As had happened universally in armies for centuries, during the monotony of a quiet watch one of the team would slip off for a nap, while the other remained at his post.

The soldier was still occupied with buckling the side arm in place when he whipped the bolt cutters into the side of the slacker's head. The man collapsed silently.

The gate guard missed the action because he continued to watch Peter, who stood just at the edge of the cone of light. Now Peter moseyed towards the gate, his hand fishing in his pocket. The guard had apparently called to him, probably demanding to see identification.

Peter, now standing an arms-length from the fence, offered the guard a folded piece of paper. The guard reached into the gap between the gate and the gatepost for what he likely believed to be Peter's authorization to be in the vicinity of the hangar.

Jupp, who had been stealing up behind the sentry, rushed forward, shouldering the guard into the mesh. Peter yanked the soldier's arm further through the fence, preventing him from reaching for a sidearm. Jupp snatched the sentry's pistol from its holster and crashed it into the man's skull.

With both guards disabled, Dangler entered the hangar, flipping on a flashlight. The bomber occupied most of the cavernous space. Beneath its tail, along the rear wall stood a line of workshops.

# Chapter 64

As Mark rocked in the swing, he watched the moon dropping into the palm trees lining the western horizon.

He had spent the last few hours trying to absorb everything that had happened since he and Klare came to this little shack. Strange he now almost thought of as their home.

They had wandered upon it only 36 hours ago. After agreeing to stay together, at least through that first night, he had gone for groceries. That was when memories of the incident with the Nazis killing the crippled railroad yardman in San Antonio swamped him.

It was only after he was back in Klare's presence that the horror of what they had done to Freddy receded

He would remember yesterday—its highs and lows—for the rest of his life. They had spent most of the morning making love.

Eager to be free of Dangler, to urge him to forget the idea of stealing a closely guarded weapon, he headed for town. His journey was interrupted when BP officer Black pursued him, confirming he was a wanted man.

Earlier in the evening, reeling from Oma's death, his emotions out of control, he and Klare had argued. He had huffed off without a word of good bye, had started for the airport to join up with Dangler. In the end, still wavering, he had trudged back here, spending hours alone wrestling with competing wants and needs.

With the moon down stars came alive in the darkened sky. He stretched out on the ground, picking out the familiar patterns. On summer nights he had often lain like this watching the shooting stars in the black skies above the ranch. He realized now how content he had been. How much certainty had surrounded him. How little anger had stained his life at that time.

He was shattered by Dangler's revelation that Oma had perished in the internment camp. He did not want to think it true, but he had no way to verify what might have happened to her. He realized now that Dangler had purposely riled him up.

He pondered if were possible to hold the government to account for what they had done to his family and Klare's. Roosevelt and Hitler both sent innocent people to prisons. Roosevelt's decisions bordered on murder in some instances. Hitler's, as she had pointed out, was always motivated by extermination.

He thought over what Dangler had said about the engine espionage being a blow aimed against Hitler. The idea of trying to shorten the war and make a truce by shocking Roosevelt into negotiating with German peace factions was beyond his comprehension. He could never unravel the truth of that matter.

What did he owe Opa? His grandfather had played a significant role in his upbringing. There was every reason to believe he would survive the war in the camp. But what would he do afterwards with no wife and no grandson to sustain him? Opa was old, most of his life was behind him. Mark, a fugitive, did not see how they could ever be reunited, heartbreaking as it was to accept.

Treason during wartime endangered soldiers' lives, of that he was certain. He did not want that on his conscience.

Soaring beyond those issues was Klare. While he wanted to take revenge on those who had caused such sorrow, he wanted even more a chance at a life with her. That possibility was almost certainly lost unless they disappeared together.

The decision made he rose from the ground. He estimated the time to be past midnight. Now more settled, he hoped sleep would come.

Once inside the adobe hut, he studied a sleeping Klare for long moments. The sight of her confirmed his vow.

With his gut calming an insistent appetite tickled. A can of beans he had bought waited on the counter top. He pulled out a drawer searching for a can opener. The wood squealed. The bed springs rustled. He turned to find her sitting up, legs dangling off the upper bunk.

She smiled. "Where you been?"

"Did some walking, then some sitting on the swing thinking?"

"I thought you'd gone for good."

"Nope."

"That pleases me." She wagged out her spiky hair.

"How's beans sound for a midnight snack along with stale tortillas."

"It'll have to do." She dropped from the bunk to the floor.

He found the can opener and went to work.

"Mark, I'm so sorry you spent all this time alone."

"No need to be sorry. I had to think through this whole thing."

"I would just have liked to be there for you after the news about your grandmother."

"It was better for me to sort it out by myself. I wouldn't have been fit company. I only made up my mind a short time ago."

She sidled over to him. "And what have you decided?"

He grabbed a wrist, pulling her into his arms. "That I want you more than I want anything else."

They kissed deeply. His hands began to roam her body.

When he was sated she rose from the bed. Nude, she walked to the kitchen area.

"If I don't eat something, I'll not have the strength to keep up with you," she said with a throaty laugh.

"Please, please eat—both cans if you need to." His hands steepled as if in prayer.

They giggled.

She located a spoon, grabbed the can he had opened, and returned to sit beside him on their bed. She shoveled in a bite of beans. Then she spooned one into his mouth.

"You need sustenance, too. No use me being stoked up and you out of steam," she chirped.

They continued through several bites. He toyed lightly with her exposed back.

"So what's our plan?" She scrapped the inside of the tin for the last morsels.

"We leave for Mexico in the morning. I'll trust your judgment and experience completely. I'm a kid from a ranch in 'podunk.' You are a world traveler."

"Does that mean you are done with whatever it was you were up to?"

"I am."

Mark emphasized the "I" in such a manner that it confirmed her guess that there were others involved. She drew a tangled bed sheet around herself. "You're not in this alone, are you?"

Eyes downcast, he shook his head.

"The others are going ahead without you?" She questioned.

"Probably."

A conspiracy undoubtedly complicated his position. Acting alone he could just abandon the plan and fade away. Involved with others, he might be implicated at some point.

"Are you positive you are willing to let something happen—not even try to stop it?"

"I'm willing to live with my decision."

"You're sure there'll be no regrets in the years to come?"

That had worried him as he tumbled through the elements of a decision. There was not enough time to completely think through every aspect.

"I'll just have to learn to accept what I've done. Besides, if I try to stop it now I'm liable to end in the middle of things. Then it'll be over for you and me."

"I want you, my dearest. But I don't want to live a lifetime worrying that I caused you to something terrible to happen. That is the kind of guilt that can destroy us."

"I won't give you up, Klare."

"I'm committed to you. Whatever happens we'll make it be the right thing. That being said, why don't you tell me the whole story? Maybe, from a different point of view, I can see another way out."

"If I say more you are in the same boat as me—guilty of treason."

"I'm a big girl. I'm climbing aboard of my own free will. Now go on, I want to hear about it."

"They never told me everything. I didn't really want to know. These four Nazis are going to take something secret from the airport. It has to do with the new engine.

A bolus of dread filled her.

"When I left you yesterday afternoon I went to see the ringleader. I told him I was quitting. After that is when he says my grandmother had died in that camp in Crystal City."

A memory sent frissons trilling up her spine.

"I was so confused. I didn't know what I should do. But now I've decided."

"How did Oma die?"

During the time Klare had worked in the Crystal City camp office the documents relating to the death of an elderly German woman had been processed there.

"I don't know. I just know she didn't get good care and that the conditions in the camp killed her."

"No, I asking what killed her?"

"She was so upset she had a heart attack, or a stroke, or something like that, is what he said."

"Listen, Mark. I was held in that very camp."

"You were!"

"I worked in the administration office. A woman of German heritage passed away. I did not deal directly with the matter, just overheard conversations. Did your grandmother have rose wine stains on both cheeks?"

He gaped. "Yes."

"Those birthmarks gave her a permanent flushed appearance, like she might have had on too much rouge, right?"

He nodded. "You know something about her?"

"I know that she did pass away."

"You're sure it was her?"

"It had to be with those unusual birthmarks."

"Tell me what happened?"

"She died in her sleep."

"In her sleep? That's not what Dangler told me."

"I'm quite sure this is correct because it came directly from the mouths of people who handled the matter. Your grandfather got up one morning and couldn't awaken her."

"Did you know them—Oma and Opa?"

"No, I never met them."

"How come they never notified me?"

"I can't say. When there was a death it was reported to Washington. They supposedly handled it from there with the next-of-kin, because they had all the necessary information."

He sat on the edge of the bunk staring at nothing. "Maybe someone tried but I'd got lost in the system by that time."

"Just to put your mind at rest, the talk in the camp office was about how suddenly she passed away. Those who knew her said she appeared well, then she was gone.

"And one more thing, I don't recall any comments or reports that either of your grandparents were anything but a couple making do, making the best of a bad situation."

He jumped up, pacing around the room and wringing his hands.

"Having second thoughts about your decision to just walk away?"

"What you've said changes things. Dangler certainly misled me. I had already begun to worry that he hasn't been telling me the whole truth. I believe a German seaman may have joined up with them recently from what one of them said.

"That makes me wonder if there isn't more to the plan then I know about. The sailor may mean they are going to escape by boat. I wonder if they are actually planning to steal the part and take it back to Germany?"

"You need to report them to the authorities."

"I will if I can. The problem is that they may be on the move right now, based upon what Dangler said. I've got to go see what's happening."

"How can I help?"

"You stay out of this, Klare. If the feds get hold of you no telling what they will do. It's my problem."

"How about afterwards? Do you still want me?"

"For sure."

"Then I'm in it with you, come what may. I'll be at my hangar at the airport waiting for you. We'll fly a little ways into Mexico right at dawn. They won't be expecting that. Once we're out of the country you can telephone the FBI and tell them what you know and where they can find the airplane. Surely we can lose ourselves somewhere down south after that."

"What if I can't make it back to the airport?"

"Go across the river to Matamoros." She embraced him. "The central square—I'll be waiting there at noon each day until you come."

# Chapter 65

The night breeze blew through Stark's shirt, providing a hint of cooling as he pedaled furiously. The hangar containing the secret plane came into view at last. Ahead he made out a darkened truck. Parked by itself along a deserted street, it seemed out of place. He stood on the coaster brakes, skidding to a stop well short of it.

After wheeling the bike into the weeds, he crept to the truck's rear end. Crushed onions littered the planking.

Only rearview mirrors allowed anyone in the cab a view behind because the front and sides of the bed were equipped with waist-high panels. He inched along the sideboards. In a mirror he caught the reflection of Thael, whose attention was focused ahead. The heist must be underway. He had to stop them!

He eased up onto the truck's tail, making his way forward to a position just behind the cab. Grabbing several onions, he began chucking them across the street and into a field. The ruined vegetables thudded onto hard the earth. He had tossed a number of them, was about to give up on luring Thael from the cab, when he stirred. The man had finally become aware of the sounds.

Thael poked his head out the opened window. Mark now aimed a few onions off towards the passenger's side of the machine. The head disappeared, undoubtedly focusing in the other direction. At that point Mark tossed a few more onions out on the left, before perching on top of the wooden side just behind the cab.

The truck door opened. As Thael stepped down Mark leaped onto his back. Thael crashed onto the pavement hard. Mark rolled up into a crouch. Only momentarily stunned, Thael quickly fumbled for a knife strapped to his calf. Mark had seen the huge gutting knife before, had watched his roommate drag it across a sharpening stone for hours. It could be lethal.

Before Thael could scramble upright Mark pinned him, banging his wrist against the truck step. Thael wailed, the weapon came free. As Mark got to his feet he noticed a flashing beam coming from the direction of the hangar. No doubt a signal that Dangler wanted the truck brought near. Bewildered by the saboteurs' progress—they appeared ready to move—he started sprinting in that direction.

He sensed movement and spun around. Thael flew at him, thrusting the knife wildly. The lithe sprinter had little upper body strength. With one hand Mark grabbed Thael's wrist, spinning him aside. Mark's free hand chopped into Thael's arm joint. The blow buckled Thael's arm, the blade now pointed at Thael's chest.

Ignoring the weapon, Thael kicked out. To avoid the thrashing foot Mark heaved on the arm he grasped, lifting Thael off his feet. Airborne for an instant, Thael crashed to earth face down with the knife under him.

Thael rolled onto his back. The knife was buried hilt-deep in his chest. His mouth opened wide attempting to scream, but only soughs escaped the lips. Mark grabbed Thael's ankles and dragged him off the street into the weeds.

The signal light blinked again. An idea for how he might deliver the Nazis and their cargo to the police formed.

Mounting the cab he cranked the engine, easing towards the hangar. When within yards of the entrance he switched on the headlights, hoping to blind Peter, who was now walking the gate open.

Once within the fence Jupp motioned for the truck to be turned around and backed up to a door. With the truck so positioned, he watched in the rearview mirror.

Dangler and Jupp wrestled a metal disk about two feet in diameter through the hangar door. A moment later it clumped onto the truck bed. The two had been so intent on their task they had not even glanced into the cab. They had no reason to expect anyone other than Thael to be behind the wheel.

Dangler called, "One more to load. Then we go."

Within moments a second similar object was aboard. Once the two men had climbed into the back, Mark rolled towards the gate. Peter emerged from the guard house as the truck pulled up and swung the gate open. With his face averted, Mark drove through. Peter closed the gate. From the commotion at the rear he knew Jupp and Dangler were hefting Peter onto the bed. A knock on the cab's roof signaled all were aboard.

Now to find some lawmen. One officer might not be sufficient to overpower those in the back. He had not seen the police station and would be unable to roam around looking for it.

One location that was sure to have guards and which was near the Mexican border was the army fort's gate. He hoped darkness and unfamiliarity with the town meant the others would not figure out what was happening. He would drive to the fort, then escape across the nearby bridge into Mexico.

He had traveled but a few blocks when a fist banged onto the truck roof.

"Stop, Willi. The boat is in the other direction," Dangler yelled.

He sped up, ignoring the pounding. More shouting ensued. Suddenly a bullet exploded through the seat on the passenger side and out the windshield. It had been fired from behind—a warning shot intended to cause compliance with Dangler's commands. Time to bale out.

He put the gearshift into neutral and edged towards the left side of the pavement. As the speed bled down, he leaped clear. He tumbled into the ditch beside the road, but was up and running well before the truck coasted to a stop. Someone started after him.

Then he heard Dangler scream. "Jupp, forget him. Come on back. Let's head to the boat."

They wanted the engine part, not him, thankfully. From a distance he watched someone jockey the truck through a turn. It jolted away, heading in the direction of the port.

# Chapter 66

"I tried to stop them but they got away. They've got whatever it is they're after, too. I have to go alert someone."

Mark had just burst into the hangar, where Klare was lubricating the Waco.

She placed a restraining hand on his arm. "Once the police hear what's taken place, they're not going to let you out of their sight. We ought to get moving now."

"Dangler must have got a boat. I can't let them get away."

They stared at one another, each struggling with a life-shaping decision.

"I've got an idea. If you let me help, I think we might be able to stop them."

"I don't want you involved."

"I'm already involved. I know enough of what's taken place to be in trouble with the law. Please let me help."

"What have you got in mind?"

"This airplane is designed to spread liquid fertilizer on crops. We can load some aviation gas in the spray tanks. Then we try to catch up with them. We'll douse them good. If that doesn't stop them then we'll set the boat afire—this stuff catches easily."

"How?"

"A firebomb."

"After that we fly to Mexico and disappear?" he asked.

"Yes. Let's get to work."

She set to pumping gasoline from a storage drum into the airplane's tank. He fabricated several fire bombs from soda bottles filled with the high-octane mixture and primed with rope fuses.

The eastern sky was turning milky, by the time he rolled back the hangar door. Once airborne they flew parallel to the ship channel. Before long they spotted a truck, which appeared to be abandoned. They continued on to the jetties, failing to see a single craft.

"How could we miss them?" he asked through the speaking tube.

"I think they already beat us into the ocean. Let's look there."

She headed offshore and began a switch-back pattern, searching south of the entrance. He was certain they would head into Mexican waters.

Some minutes later, through the gosport she said, "Got a boat ahead and to the right."

He waved agreement after picking it out on the water below.

"We need to make a positive identification. I'll fly by low. See if you recognize anyone on board."

He gave her a thumbs up acknowledgement.

She made a pass down one side.

"That's them, all right," he shouted as they flew beyond the craft.

As though tracking a course, rather than conducting a search, she continued on her present heading. Once out of the boat's view, she circled back.

"Our first pass will be the best chance we're going to have. I'll be low and as slow as I can make her fly."

They tracked up the boat's wake skimming the wave tops. The frame shook from the airstream burbling over the wings. The nose was high, fortunately the boat's trail led arrow-straight.

Above the stern she released fuel. The men on deck raised their arms, attempting to shield themselves from the gasoline shower. Mark stood, leaned out over the cockpit's side with a lighted firebomb in his hand. He flicked the bomb away from the wing. It tumbled harmlessly into the sea, but the Nazis would understand what would happen if they did not turn around.

The Waco climbed and came around for another run. That was good in that another dump of the liquid would further douse the boat. Bad because she expected there would be gunfire—they had a weapon, according to Mark.

During the next pass, with her spraying more fuel, he dropped two lit bottles. They shattered on the deck. The fuse had blown out in the slipstream as they fell. The deck was now, however, coated with a highly volatile mixture. A single spark would detonate an explosion.

Unfortunately, gunshots had punctured the wings in several places. Ragged holes now permeated the surfaces. The essential flight controls and power system remained unharmed.

"Klare," Mark's voice came in from the gosport, "they're still heading away. The next time may be our last chance. The bottles aren't working I'm going to try something different. I want you to come across them left to right. I've pulled the fuses out of the bottles and tied them into a long hank. The entire length is soaked with gasoline. If any part of them touches the boat she'll go up."

This approach gave her no wake to follow since they were coming in from the side. Mark stood and pointed left and right, guiding them in. Shots exploded, ripping through the floorboards. Mark slumped. She knew the fuses were alight—smoke whisked past her. By the time he was back in position they had flown beyond the boat.

"Quick, turn us around," he screamed, leaning back towards her. "This wicker chair is afire. There's no way to put it out."

The safest course was to set the craft down—they could swim to shore. Then she saw the look on his face. He might never forgive her. They were still in the air, could still fight.

She whipped a wing up and stomped on the rudder. The plane stalled. She managed to level it out a few feet above the water before aiming at the boat.

Blood streaming from wounds, Mark guided her in again. With one hand he hung from a strut and stretched far out of the cockpit. A burning rope dangled across the coaming and back into the cockpit. Bullets whizzed round them. As they crossed above the boat he snatched the burning fuse, dropping it beyond the wing.

An instant later a whoosh of energy lifted them. The explosion from below and behind roiled the air with oily smoke. Mark collapsed. He needed a hospital.

She yanked on the controls, throwing the plane into a steep turn for shore. The action was too aggressive for the shredded wings. They lost lift. The nose dropped. The low wing clipped a wave. The plane cart wheeled, ending right side up but afloat.

Mark had been ejected. Her head swiveled around, not spying him on the surface. Once free of the aircraft, a wooden floor plate served her as a float. A hundred yards away the Nazis' boat burned furiously. There were no persons visible, either aboard it or in the water.

She paddled through the area around the sinking aircraft looking for Mark. After several minutes and with the search apparently turning futile, she began a slow kick towards the Mexican coast.

The fetch was on-shore, the water tepid, the predators non-existent. She would make it. She was a proven survivor.

# Chapter 66

Dangler peeked above the sand dune. The two men in suits were finally trudging away. The lean fellow's heeled boots, sinking into the powdery sand, periodically threw him off balance. Dangler recognized him from the New Mexico camp. Stark had not lied about the Border Patrol officer pursuing them.

A gust of wind toyed with the other man's huge western hat before a hand clamped it back into place. He assumed the short, stocky one to be a lawman as well, drawn to the scene by the coast guard boat's explosion.

When the airplane burst in on them the first time, Jupp had been steering. Gasoline rained into his eyes. Peter had gone below to try to help flush the substance out. He had remained on deck alone to steer and fend off the attacks. The explosion blew him overboard, and saved his life. It was unlikely the brothers lived.

Following a long swim to shore earlier, he had barely staggered into the dunes and out of sight before the two men had shown up. Each of them had kept their eyes on the surf looking for survivors and wreckage. The sea gave up nothing.

Nightfall would signal the beginning of a long trek.

At the outset of the assignment he had been contemplating suicide. A condition, he now believed, to be the result of having been trapped within a floundering army, lead by men too mad to realize they were losing a war and destroying a people. It was a national psychosis that he had been fortunate enough to escape due purely to fate.

Imprisonment had been dreary but survivable, and it had given him time to gain perspective. During that period he had determined that should the undertaking fail, remaining in the United States was preferable.

He had no desire to return to Germany, if such a journey was even possible. Once back in the Fatherland, who knew what the mission's failure would mean for him personally. If he lived through the Fuhrer's wrath, the decade following the war would be brutal. He had experienced such difficult times once and had no desire to endure them again. Disappearing into Mexico had been an option he had considered. Unfortunately, he knew nothing of the nation or its language.

The US seemed to offer the most opportunity to begin a new life. He was mastering the language and liked Americans. He must, however, make it through the remainder of the war.

To that end, the East coast and more particularly New York City appeared the most promising locale in which one might exist underground. There were numerous German communities there.

He planned to revert to his actual identity—that of Walter Delp. That personage was, in all probability, unknown in the US. He accepted that there was a reasonable likelihood of eventually being detained again should the authorities run across an unregistered alien in a raid, or by chance.

The risk of a connection between his two identities seemed minimal. He expected that those involved in an investigation of the espionage would deem Dangler to have died along with his comrades.

When peace returned he hoped to make a life here. In the meantime he could live with the failure. He had given the mission his best, had not shied from a duty owed. What he would always regret was the deaths. They were men of honor, their allegiances stolen by perverted politicians.

Endnote

This is a work of fiction the people depicted are not intended to resemble anyone living or dead.

The following is not fiction:

Over 40 million Germans immigrated to America before 1940.

The United States detained 12,500 civilians of German descent during the Second World War.

Over 4,500 Latin-American Germans were deported to internment in Texas. Against their wishes an unknown number were repatriated to Nazi Germany in exchange for US citizens.

Nearly 425,000 German soldiers and sailors were incarcerated in some 700 Prisoner of War camps located throughout America during the war years.

Mexican rebels, allied with the Nazis, mounted raids from Brownsville into Mexico. They established outposts along their nation's sea coasts to aid America's enemies.

A prototype General Electric jet engine was flight-tested at the Brownsville, Texas airport during the war.

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