David Golemon - Legacy

As his green eyes went back to the train depot, he thought about the message he had received from the main OSS operative in Brazil, relaying the news about Lee being missing and suggesting he be on the lookout for a Nazi named Heinz Goetz, an SS general they suspected of being in this hemisphere. Goetz was possibly coming to take something out of Ecuador. Hamilton examined the only picture Washington could forward of Goetz and saw that the small SS man had cruel eyes. He figured that, between the cruel eyes and his small stature, Goetz should be easy to spot if his destination was, indeed, Quito. There was no information or even an educated guess about what this Goetz might be removing from Ecuador, just that it might be more than one item.

Ben placed the photo back into the inside pocket of his jacket and then zipped the coat up to his throat against the chill of the day. As he watched the train that had just pulled in, he raised the cup of rich coffee and drank.

As he sat there waiting, Ben thought about the only thing that had occupied his mind for the past three years-his new wife, Alice. He had only been with Alice for three days after their wedding before he was shipped out for training at Quantico, Virginia, and then to Fort Knox, Kentucky. He missed his eighteen-year-old bride more than anything in his own young life, and couldn’t wait for the damned war to be over so he could get back to her. No matter what Garrison Lee said or how much he begged, the OSS was not the life for him, not if it meant being away from Alice.

His thoughts were interrupted by two large trucks speeding down the street. He half turned and watched as they pulled up to the loading platform at the station. He looked around, trying not to move his head, as though the trucks were of no interest to him. He saw three large Western-looking men start shouting orders in broken English to fifteen Ecuadorian workers as they piled out of the back of the first vehicle. They all ran for the covered bed of the second and started unloading crate after crate. Ben turned to his left and whistled. A man who was sitting at a shoeshine stand lowered his newspaper with the banner headline, HITLER DEAD! The medium-sized man saw Ben nod his head toward the trucks.

The man stood, tossing the boy shining his shoes a quarter, a real prize for the kid or for almost anyone else in the country. He stepped down and then gestured to his right. Three men joined him. They walked to a car parked along the street and opened the trunk. As Hamilton watched, he unzipped his coat and made sure the Colt. 45 he had was there along with his spare clips of ammunition. He zipped the jacket back up as the four men removed two Thompson submachine guns and two large shotguns. They double-checked their loads and then the lead man walked casually over to the train station. Hamilton stood and tossed a dollar on the table, then slowly made his way out of the cafe, electing to go around the far side of the small station and its loading platform.

“One more mission, Alice, then your husband is coming home,” he said to himself with a smile as he dodged the few cars along the main thoroughfare of Quito.

The four men approached the truck that was being loaded. Two men split off and checked the back of the first truck. Four wooden crates had already been placed on the platform. The first two approached a large blond man who was laughing with another European-looking man as they leaned against the back of the truck being unloaded. The third was in the back supervising the work.

The sound of a shotgun being charged with a lethal round brought all the activity around the trucks to a halt.

“Gentlemen, we are the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. We need to see a bill of lading before you transport these items out of Quito.”

The two men at the back of the truck straightened and the third poked his head out of the back and smiled.

“The FBI, in Ecuador?” the large man asked, hopping expertly down from the bed of the truck. The speaker’s words were in very passable English.

“We’re here at the invitation of the local government and the people of Ecuador, sir. Now, the bill of lading, please.”

The third man kept smiling as he took in the guns and the other two men who came up from the first truck on either side. The Ecuadorian laborers stepped back as the confrontation ensued. The blond started removing a thick pair of gloves.

“Would you mind if I saw some identification, gentlemen?” The man’s smile broadened as he shot a quick glance at the train station.

The lead agent slowly lowered his shotgun and reached into his leather field jacket. He brought out a green ID card with “FBI” written in bold, golden letters.

“Looks real enough,” the man said, leaning closer to the ID card, “Agent Ferguson.”

Two of the agents suddenly turned as the doors to the station house opened and a small man with a long black leather coat emerged. He carried a satchel and his glasses reflected the light of the afternoon sun.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

As Ben rounded the far side of the platform, he saw the small man who stood on it looking down at the scene below. Hamilton fumbled for his. 45 and at the same time he brought out the picture the OSS in Brazil had forwarded to him a day earlier. Ben smiled as he recognized General Heinz Goetz. The SS officer was even shorter than his description.

“No problems here, Mac, as long as you have the proper paperwork for these crates,” the lead agent said, placing his ID back into his jacket. “Why, you boys didn’t even have these things weighed in. I believe the Ecuadorian government requires the weigh-in of all freight.”

“I have a bill of lading and weight certificate right here, gentlemen.” Goetz half turned his head and nodded toward the interior of the station. Then he opened his satchel.

Ben saw movement and froze. Then he jumped forward toward the first truck.

“No!” he shouted loudly.

Just as Ben made his appearance, Goetz removed a Walther pistol and fired point-blank at the lead agent, then before the rest of the FBI team reacted Goetz slammed his body down onto the wooden platform just as the large glass windows behind him shattered as machine gun bullets started raking the three remaining agents and several laborers at the back of the truck.

As Ben ran around the blind side of the second truck, one of the agents was thrown backward into him. Ben saw that he was still alive and started pulling him back as bullets started to find their way back to his vulnerable position. Hamilton aimed as best he could with the wounded agent in his arms and then fired, but the agent’s weight pulled his aim off considerably. Not that it would have mattered. As he stumbled backward he saw ten men emerge from the station house and all of them had machine guns. They were raking not only the agents, but the Ecuadorian workers who were trying to flee in a panic.

Ben lost his footing and went down, pinned beneath the agent’s weight. Still, he was able to raise the. 45 in his right hand and start firing low to the ground. He managed to hit the feet and ankles of the two men at the back of the truck. As they hit the gravel-covered ground, the OSS man placed two rounds each into their heads and then he ejected the spent clip and inserted another. Hamilton then started pulling the wounded agent along as best he could as he heard men taking position around the first truck. He knew they would soon be surrounded.

“Don’t kill the American. We need him.”

Ben Hamilton heard Goetz shout at the remaining man who had accompanied the trucks. Ben shrugged the agent, who was now dead, off him and stood. He retraced his steps and then took quick aim at Goetz, who was standing on the platform looking as if he were Julius Caesar. Hamilton placed pressure on the trigger and that was when he was brutally pulled backward, hard enough that the. 45 flew from his hand. He lost his balance and fell, a strong arm pulling at him, his coat collar used like a suitcase handle to drag him through the gravel. Ben tried to warn whoever was pulling him that there was a man taking aim at them, and just as they reached the corner of the platform, the man pulling him to safety emptied a Colt. 45 into the assassin. Finally, as they rounded the wooden platform, Ben was pulled to his feet.