Беар Гриллс: The Hunt [=The Devil's Sanctuary]

The headlamps illuminated the scene before him, casting it into dull light and shadow. Thick pine forest clung to the lower slopes, making the yawning entrance to Tunnel 88 – and the series of similar openings to either side – all but invisible. From each sprouted a tangle of wires, set all along the rock face.

Kammler waited for his driver to park the vehicle, noting that he left the engine running just as he’d been ordered. Scharführer Weber was a good man, and he had proved an utterly loyal servant. An unspoken understanding – an instinctive empathy – had developed between them.

A pity, in view of what was coming.

A hand emerged from the darkness: it was Scharführer Weber’s, holding out the handset of the field telephone.

‘Sir.’

Kammler took it. ‘Thank you. Wait in the vehicle. Just as soon as I have finished, we will be off – the same route as we came in.’

‘Yes, Herr General.’

The car door slammed.

Kammler spoke into the handset. ‘Herr Obersturmführer, you are ready?’

‘Yes, Herr General.’

‘Very good. Proceed when you see my staff car stop at the edge of the clearing. But give me time to dismount, so that I can personally witness this glorious spectacle.’

‘Yes, Herr General. Understood. Heil Hitler.’

‘Heil Hitler.’

Kammler opened the passenger door of the car and slid onto the polished black leather seat, signalling for Scharführer Weber to drive. The smooth Horch V8 engine rumbled throatily as the vehicle pulled away. A minute later, where the sandy track snaked off into the thick cover of the fir trees, Kammler signalled a halt.

‘Just here will be fine.’

He swung his polished leather boots out of the vehicle and stood, facing the direction of the escarpment. As the early rays of dawn peeked over the mountains to the east, they burnished the rock face before him a golden bronze.

Kammler leant on the passenger door, bracing himself for what was coming. As he did so, his thick leather coat fell open a little, revealing the compact Walther PPK pistol he had strapped in a holster at his hip.

He brushed his hand against it, just as he had done with his death’s-head cap, checking that it was within easy reach.

Soon now.

Kammler forced his mouth wide open, signalling to his driver to do likewise, and the two SS men faced the mountain, gaping like fish. Even this far away, they needed to take precautions, for a blast this powerful could blow their eardrums.

The explosion, when it came, was all Kammler had hoped it would be.

A series of blasts flashed outwards from the trigger point – Tunnel 88 – the detonation cords igniting with such speed that they appeared indistinguishable from each other. All along a four-hundred-yard front the rock face seemed to dissolve as one, transforming itself into a whirling mass of shattered rubble.

The entire escarpment appeared to rise momentarily as it disintegrated into pulverised granite and boulders. The blast vomited hundreds of tonnes of shattered rock, which began to crash back down in a crushing tidal wave.

An instant later, the shock wave hit the two watchers, rocking the car alarmingly on its springs and tearing at Kammler’s cap and his thick leather coat before hammering into the forest to their rear. It was followed almost immediately by the sound wave, an impossible roaring and snarling that broke over them and bored into their heads.

Eventually it dissipated and Kammler straightened up. The sheer power of the explosion had sent him into a defensive crouch – not that he or Scharführer Weber had been in any great danger. He brushed down his coat, removing the thin film of white dust that had been carried with the blast.

He kept his eyes glued to the mountainside. When the air finally began to clear, he found himself marvelling at what he saw. Just as he’d intended, it looked as if a massive rock slide had obliterated one entire side of the mountain.

Here and there a dark slash of red indicated where a rich vein of minerals – iron, perhaps – had been torn asunder and slewed down the slope. Uprooted trees lay like heaps of scattered matchwood, crushed under the weight of the rock. But crucially, there was no sign – not the barest hint – of the tunnel complex that now lay hidden behind the wall of debris, not to mention the sixty young soldiers entombed therein.

Kammler gave a satisfied nod. ‘Good. We go,’ he announced simply.

Scharführer Weber slipped into the driver’s seat and blipped the throttle. Kammler clambered in beside him and, with a last look at the dust-enshrouded scene, signalled the staff sergeant to move off.

The dark forest swallowed them. For a few minutes they drove in silence, or at least comparative silence. Even at this hour the hollow crump of artillery could be heard in the distance. The cursed Americans: how they loved to flaunt their military superiority over the Wehrmacht.

It was Weber who broke the quiet. ‘Where to, Herr General? Once we make the metalled road?’

‘Where indeed, Konrad? Where indeed?’ Kammler mused. ‘With the Americans and British to one side, and the Russians to the other, where do we of the Schutzstaffel turn?’

For a long moment Weber seemed unsure of how to answer, or even whether an answer was expected. Finally he must have presumed that it was.

‘To the Werewolves, Herr General? To seek out their headquarters?’

‘Indeed, Konrad, a good thought,’ Kammler answered, staring out of the window at the dark trees. ‘A fine suggestion. That’s if they had one. A headquarters. But I suspect that no such thing can be found.’

Scharführer Weber looked puzzled. ‘But Herr General, a movement such as the Werewolves… Surely…’

Kammler glanced at his driver. The younger man was doubtless fitter too, so he would need to be careful. ‘Surely what, Konrad?’

Weber’s hands gripped the wheel more tightly. ‘Well, Herr General, how long can our Kameraden beneath the mountain hold out? They will need to be relieved. Dug out of there. As we promised they would be.’

‘No, Konrad. Correction. As I promised. You promised nothing.’

Weber nodded, keeping his eyes on the route ahead. ‘Of course, Herr General.’

The track swung down to cross a rock-strewn riverbed. Scharführer Weber would need to be extra careful not to get a puncture here, or damage an axle.

Kammler stared ahead, eyes piercing the gloom of the dawn forest. ‘If you could pull over, Konrad.’ He feigned a smile. ‘Even an SS general has at times the need to pee.’ He gestured at the river crossing. ‘Perhaps when we make the far side.’

‘Of course, Herr General.’

They crawled across the rough ground, the car groaning and bucking with every turn of the wheels. Once over, Weber pulled to a halt and Kammler climbed out of the car, taking several paces into the forest as if to relieve himself in private.

Once he was out of sight, he eased the Walther PPK out of its holster and cocked it. He was ready.

Kammler slid back into his seat.

‘I continue, Herr General?’ Scharführer Weber queried.

Kammler ignored the question. ‘Sadly, Konrad, none of those young men in that tunnel are destined to survive. Like so many others, they will have given their lives for the glory of the Reich.’

‘But, Herr General, we told them—’

‘Wrong again, Konrad,’ Kammler cut in. ‘ I told them. If they have been misled, it is none of your doing.’

‘Of course, Herr General. But…’

‘You wish to know why. Very well. I will explain.’ Kammler gestured ahead. ‘Drive if you will.’

Weber eased the car into gear, the dappled sunlight sending beams of light lancing through the thick tree cover, throwing the interior of the Horch into sharp light and shadow.