War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel Read Free

remaining four men.
    Geist crossed and climbed into one of the lorries, where he found the keys in the ignition. He started the engine, warming it up, then hopped back out again. He crossed to the remaining two trucks and popped their hoods.
    In the distance, Kraus’s machine gun began a lethal chattering, accompanied by the rattle of assault rifles and the overlapping crump of exploding grenades.
    Finally, a faint call reached him.
    “ Klar, klar, klar!” Hoffman shouted.
    Geist hurried back to the idling lorry, climbed inside, and put the truck into gear—but not before tossing two grenades into each of the open engine compartments of the remaining lorries. As he rolled out and hit the accelerator, the grenades exploded behind him.
    He raced to the main gate and braked hard. British soldiers lay dead; the spotlights shot out. Hoffman rolled the gate open, limping on a bloody leg. Supported by a teammate, Kraus hobbled his way into the back of the lorry. Hoffman joined him up front, climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door angrily.
    “Lost Schwab and Braatz.” Hoffman waved ahead. “Go, go.”
    With no time to mourn, Geist gunned the engine and raced down the country road. He kept one eye on the side mirror, watching for any sign of pursuit. Taking a maze of turns, he tried to further confound their escape route. Finally, he steered the lorry down a narrow dirt tract lined by overgrown English oaks. At the end was a large barn, its roof half collapsed. To the left was a burned-out farmhouse.
    Geist parked beneath some overhanging boughs and shut off the engine. “We should see to everyone’s injuries,” he said. “We’ve lost enough good men.”
    “Everybody out,” Hoffman ordered, rapping a knuckle on the back of the compartment.
    After they all climbed free, Geist surveyed the damage. “You’ll all get the Knight’s Cross for your bravery tonight. We should—”
    A harsh shout cut him off, barked in German. “ Halt! Hände hoch!”
    A dozen men, bristling with weapons, emerged from the foliage and from behind the barn.
    “Nobody move!” the voice called again, revealing a tall American with a Tommy gun in hand.
    Geist recognized the impossibility of their team’s situation and lifted his arms. Hoffman and his last two men followed his example, dropping their weapons and raising their hands.
    It was over.
    As the Americans frisked Hoffman and the others, a lone figure stepped from the darkened barn door and approached Geist. He pointed a .45-caliber pistol at Geist’s chest.
    “Tie him up,” he ordered one of his men.
    As his wrists were efficiently bound in rope, his captor spoke in a rich southern twang. “Colonel Ernie Duncan, 101st Airborne. You speak English?”
    “Yes.”
    “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
    “ Schweinhund ,” Geist answered with a sneer.
    “Son, I’m pretty sure that isn’t your name. I’ll assume that slur is intended for me. So then let’s just call you Fritz. You and I are going to have a talk. Whether it’s pleasant or ugly is up to you.”
    The American colonel called to one of his men. “Lieutenant Ross, put those other three men into the back of their truck and get them ready for transport. Say good-bye to your team, Fritz.”
    Geist turned to face his men and shouted, “ Für das Vaterland!”
    “ Das Vaterland!” Hoffman and the others repeated in unison.
    The American soldiers herded the commandos into the back of the lorry, while Colonel Duncan marched Geist over to the barn. Once inside, he closed the doors and waved to encompass the piles of hay and manure.
    “Sorry for our meager accommodations, Fritz.”
    Geist turned to face him and broke into a smile. “Damned good to see you, too, Duncan.”
    “And you, my friend. How’d it go? Find what you were looking for?”
    “It’s in my jacket. For whatever it’s worth, those Germans fight like the devil. Bletchley’s burning. But they should be up and running again in