William Dietrich - Ice Reich

A vine?

He dropped it as if shocked. It had to be the wire of the demolition charge.

"Jesus Christ." He stood, swaying as he caught his breath. It was pitch black. He carefully shuffled forward against the current until his shin brushed the wire and elaborately stepped over it. A thought occurred to him. If the Germans had bothered to set explosives on the downstream end of the grotto, where the river would eventually cut a new path anyway, they'd certainly wire the upstream end as well. He'd have to watch for explosives there too.

How much time?

He counted his steps upstream, trying to visualize the grotto. One chance, one chance, he kept telling himself.

By his calculation he was near his sleeping spot. There wasn't even a spark of illumination. It was blacker than night, as black as a tomb. But if they'd been hasty… He crawled out of the river and groped in the sand, the mineral smell of the hot spring giving him a crude compass. Yes! The wool of his blanket! He scrambled across it, banged painfully into a rock, felt its underside… Thank God. They'd left what he'd stored there: his parka, boots, and helmet. The miner's helmet. The bastards had been too arrogant or too lazy to pack his gear out. Too stupid. He sobbed a prayer of relief.

He found the battery and flicked on the light, its modest glow seeming brilliant. Hastily he hauled on clothes and boots and sprang up with the helmet on his head, the beam stabbing wildly around the lip of the falls. He spotted a drooping wire connecting two charges on either side of the water. A box, a clock. He inspected. The timer hand had stalled at the zero point! Had the demolition failed? He bent closer, peering, and realized there was an audible ticking. The timer hand was simply close. Very close. Two minutes to go?

He didn't have a clue what would happen if he tried to disconnect the wire.

He began running upstream, water spraying and the beam of his helmet bouncing madly. Ahead was the dark hole of the tunnel that led out of the grotto. He jumped, wedging his arms into the tunnel, and kicked upward. Another wire caught on his coat. Damnation! Gently he lifted the parka free and humped over it like a worm, losing the thread of seconds he'd been counting in his brain. His boot snagged and he tensed for an explosion that didn't come. Then he was past the wire and crawling furiously through the narrow tunnel, his sphincter tightening at the thought of the charge about to go off at his back. He came to the tight squeeze he and Greta had found and wriggled through it like a madman, his clothes a smear of dirt. Then on and on, each yard a measure of safety…

Something kicked him hard from behind and a roar clapped his ears. The explosion actually lifted and shoved him forward, hot as hell, the roar blasting his helmet off and sending it sailing ahead of him until the battery wire yanked taut. Then he came down with an oof and a gout of heat and smoke and gritty debris rattled past him, choking his throat with dust. Somewhere he could hear the crash of immensely heavy rock falling.

Crawl, dammit! Crawl!

He was clawing now, the helmet jammed back on his head, wriggling forward until he could rise to his hands and knees, then to a crouch, staggering as fast as he could with his bent back scraping rock. Air kept pummeling him as the ceiling gave way behind, each collapse triggering another in a chain reaction. He managed a stooped run just as the roof of the low tunnel gave way with a roar. Something heavy clipped him like the swipe of a claw… and then he was beyond the cave-in, coughing painfully in a swirling cloud of dust and smoke, his head ringing and the miraculously shining beam of his headlamp knocked awry.

For the moment, at least, he was alive.

He stood a minute, dazed. Then he dimly remembered he didn't have time to rest: the storm troopers were well ahead of him, no doubt readying another explosion at the outer entrance. He stumbled on, finding the haze beginning to clear as he climbed up the slope of broken basalt boulders. Ahead was the vertical chimney that led out of the mountain. He climbed to the plug that choked the chimney's base.

Anxiety plagued him. Had they blown the outer entrance? No, not yet. Of course not yet: the Germans hadn't had time to climb out themselves. Get a grip! Panting, he worked around the jam of rock to where he could see up the immense chimney, flicking off his headlamp.

Far, far above was the bob of lamps like his own, as remote as stars, as elusive as fairy lights. It was them. The storm troopers. They were still hoisting themselves and their packs of lake organism out of the cave, slowly inching up the chimney toward the tunnel that led to his alternate exit. The lights were like a taunting beacon.

Somehow he'd have to outrun them. He groped along the wall. Yes! They were packing out so much cargo they'd failed to carry out all the ropes. And why bother? With the initial explosion the American was certainly already dead, the cave useless. So they'd left in place the climbing line that followed the first pitch up the vertical shaft. He grasped it and pulled as hard as he could with grim satisfaction. Should have cut it, Bristle-Head. Should have stopped to make sure. Too cocky. Too lazy. He put up a foot to climb.

The cave quivered then and he put out a hand to brace himself. Another explosion? No, a tremor from the sister volcano. A sympathetic echo to the manmade bomb. He heard cries of alarm from the Germans far above, and behind him there was a growl of settling rock. Shards rattled down the chimney and he crouched, listening to them whine and shatter. Christ, what a hellhole he'd found!

Then the cave quieted again. The shouts echoed away. Both Hart and the Germans resumed climbing, the pilot going as hard as he could while watching the lights above. At least he wasn't burdened with a damn pack. He was gaining.

Twenty feet. Fifty. Seventy. All by feel up the rope. The cave so dark it was as if he was climbing in space. It became a kind of rhythm, his trance broken only by another falling rock, this time dislodged by someone above. He hugged the chimney wall as it sizzled past with terrifying energy, its fragments clicking like angry insects when they ricocheted back up the shaft around him. The rock had to be an accident, he told himself. There was no way the Germans could be throwing at him. No way they could see unlit Owen Hart, the stalking ghost.

He reached the tunnel shelf where he and Greta had first entered the cave and risked a quick blink of light. Another climbing line was still in place. He grasped it.

"What was that?" The voice came from far above.

"What?"

"I thought I saw a light!"

He waited. The headlamps above had paused.

"I don't see anything."

"You're spooked," someone growled. "Come on, let's get out of this pit." It was Hans, the pilot guessed. "I'd feel safer on the Russian Front." The lights began moving again, Hart following as he heard them shouting instructions to each other to belay their heavy packs.

Finally the lamps began to wink out: the Germans had reached the steep tunnel at the top of the chimney that would take them to the outside and were slowly climbing into it. He waited a moment until the last one disappeared and then gratefully flicked his own headlamp on, momentarily half blinded. One more rope to go! He still had a chance! The damn Nazis would have to pause at the top exit to set further charges. He'd catch them there.

With his light on he could move faster. He'd never worked so hard in his life, lungs aching, muscle fiber screaming. Up, up, up. The dread of being trapped in the mountain electrified him. Somehow, he would get to Greta, take the food, say goodbye…

"Goddamn!"

The oath made Hart jerk in alarm. There was a bang and a bullet whined off the face of the shaft, the pilot instinctively ducking his head. Then another, closer this time. He switched off his lamp.