No one had any.
Five minutes later Mason and his team entered the processing facility. He sent Corporal Manganella, plus the other MP and the two German police, to search the upper-floor offices of the building while he and Wolski slowly penetrated the maze of the processing facility below. Man-sized meat cutters, saws, and grinders stood quiet in a space that could accommodate two football fields. Suspended from the fifteen-foot ceiling, pipes, conveyor belts, and a system of coffin-sized gondolas wove through the plant. Half of the floor above had collapsed from the bombings, turning an already impossible tangle of metal and concrete into a jungle of rubble and debris.
Wolski made a face and whispered, “Did a herd of buffalo die in here?”
Mason pointed to mounds of black and green rot spilled on the floor. “Looks like bombs hit in the middle of their workday.”
The huge holes in the ceiling let in soft light from the charcoal gray sky, but there were so many shadowy spaces that they had to use their flashlights to sweep the area. They tried to move quietly across the debris-strewn floor, but the men they had sent to the upper floor and the other teams in the other buildings were ignoring Mason’s warnings. Mason and Wolski could hear banging doors, loud calls, and heavy footsteps echoing across the entire complex.
“If Ramek didn’t know we were here before, he does now,” Wolski said.
Mason mumbled curses about the other men’s carelessness.
The wind picked up, making the building creak and moan. Somewhere a flap of metal banged rhythmically. Then rain began to fall, the plink of raindrops sounding on metal. They had almost reached the far side when the four men searching the upper offices came noisily down the stairs.
Corporal Manganella breached the doorway first. “No sign of him upstairs, sir.”
“Keep it down,” Mason whispered back.
Mason and Wolski joined the four others at the stairwell.
“We go down quietly,” Mason said. “No talking. Hand signals only.”
“What if we see him?” Manganella asked.
“Then blow your damned whistle.”
They all descended the two flights of stairs and entered a pitch-black room. Their flashlight beams revealed a large space housing barrel-shaped steam cookers and blending machines; above their heads, a dense metal grate hung just below a web of heating pipes, electrical conduits, and drainpipes.
The group spread out and proceeded slowly, weaving around the heavy machinery. Water trickled through hairline cracks in the floor above, forming stagnant puddles at their feet. The whole setting made the hair on the back of Mason’s neck bristle. Doubts about the wisdom of searching this place with so few men began to worm into his consciousness.
A section of the floor grating creaked when Wolski stepped on it. Mason crept closer to him, and they shined their lights down through the metal grid. The tight pattern blocked most of their light, so they could see only a small portion of the space below.
“What’s down there?” Mason whispered.
“Looks like some kind of maintenance access.”
The group finally reached a wall that Mason estimated was only a quarter of the way across the building. Mason looked at the others. The six men were stretched out along a fifty-foot line, and they faced two separate corridors. Their faces were barely illuminated by the reflections of the flashlights, but he could clearly see that all of them were unnerved by the oppressive gloom. He signaled for the last three to take the corridor leading to the right. He, Wolski, and Manganella took the corridor that led straight ahead.
The corridor was wide enough for the three to walk abreast, and it continued beyond the power of the flashlight beams. The same metal grating ran down the middle of the floor. Every twenty paces they encountered a doorway, alternating left then right. With each room, they performed the same nerve-wracking procedure, surging into the room two abreast, guns and lights up, never knowing if Ramek waited in ambush. But each search revealed only lifeless giants of metal or mazes of compressors and pipes.
Mason felt it in his feet. The building shuddered. An instant later a deep rumble rolled past them.
Manganella threw himself against the wall. “Christ, what was that?”
“Sounds like something collapsed,” Wolski said. “Not in this building, I don’t think.”
“Sal, go find out what happened and report back to us,” Mason said.
“Back that way?” At the sight of Mason’s face, the corporal reluctantly turned and walked back the way they had come.
“On the double,” Wolski said.
Manganella broke into a run.
“Hope no one’s hurt,” Wolski said.
Mason felt too conflicted to respond. Was it worth risking lives to be crawling around the bowels of this wreck of a building?
He answered his question by moving forward. A moment later they came to another corridor that led off to the right. Though it was half the width of the hallway they were in, the majority of pipes and conduits branched off in that direction.
“By my reckoning, this main corridor leads to the canning building,” Wolski said.
“Sounds about right.” Mason nodded toward the narrower corridor. “This one should link us up with the other team. We regroup with them then search the rest.”
“Sounds like a plan, O Wise One.”
Mason gave him a reproving look, but he appreciated the humor; it helped cut through the oppressive surroundings. They turned into the branching corridor. The suspended pipes and conduits were only an inch above Wolski’s head. The same metal grating ran along the middle of the floor but with only a foot of concrete on either side.
They both put as much weight as they could on the concrete, which forced them to slide along the damp walls. A thin stream of water trickled in the tunnel beneath them. Their footsteps on the sandy concrete rasped loudly in the narrow space. After advancing thirty feet, they came to a room off to the right. As before, they swung into the room on either side of the door frame with guns up. More pipes and compressors.
Wolski signaled for Mason to listen. “Voices somewhere behind that wall,” Wolski said. “The other team.”
Mason shrugged that he couldn’t hear them.
“Old man. Going deaf already?”
“You live through hours of artillery blasts and see how well you can hear,” Mason said.
“Hold on to your cane, Gramps. We should link up with those guys any minute.”
Mason and Wolski stepped out into the corridor again. Mason shot his hand up to stop. He pointed down the corridor another hundred feet ahead. He pushed Wolski’s flashlight down to aim at the floor. Then Wolski saw it, too.
The corridor ended, leading to another room. Somewhere in the room, off to the right, glowed a greenish yellow light. In the distance, beyond the door frame, the ghostly light reflected off a giant furnace.
“This corridor leads to the main furnaces and steam pump room,” Mason whispered. “That light wasn’t on when we went into that last room.”
They crept forward, guns up. Just a few steps later, Wolski’s foot made the grate creak. The silence amplified the sound as it echoed off the concrete walls. They waited and listened. Then, hugging tight to the walls, they moved forward again.
A shadow swept across the distant furnace. They stopped. Mason’s skin tightened and the hair on the back of his neck stood up as if in warning. A heartbeat later, a tall man stood silhouetted in the doorway as if he had been expecting them. He neither moved nor spoke. Mason and Wolski whipped up their flashlights. The beams struck the man in the face.
He smiled, as if taunting them. Under his long blue coat he wore a full surgical gown, and surgical gloves covered his hands.
Mason registered all this in a fraction of a second, yet he hesitated. His brain tried to comprehend while his skin turned icy cold.
&nbs
p; “Ramek!”
Mason and Wolski made quick strides toward the door with their guns ready to fire.
“Don’t move! Put your hands up!”
In an instant Ramek vanished into the recesses of the furnace room. Mason and Wolski broke into a dead run. Mason was faster and he surged ahead.
“Mason, wait!”
Too late. Mason felt the tug of a trip wire at his ankle as he breached the door frame. He heard a metallic clank. At the same moment the lantern extinguished, plunging the room into blackness. Mason spun to his right, gun and flashlight arms rigid. His light flashed across something shiny in a swift, arcing motion coming right at him. An instant later Wolski burst through the door, slamming into him.
Mason went flying through the air. He heard Wolski scream even as he folded his body to protect himself from the fall. He collided with the cement floor. His flashlight popped out of his hand, bounced, then rolled out of reach. As Mason scrambled for the flashlight he could hear Wolski’s gurgled fights for breath.
From somewhere in the darkness came Ramek’s voice. “The trap was meant for you, but your friend will do.”
Mason reached the flashlight and whirled around with the light and gun. He searched frantically for Ramek, but Ramek was gone.
The urges to chase down Ramek or to turn to his friend’s aid were both so overwhelming that he remained frozen in a crouching position for what seemed like an impossible amount of time. He trained the flashlight beam on Wolski. Wolski lay on his side, facing away from Mason. His back was covered in blood, and he held the side of his neck as blood oozed between his fingers and streamed onto the floor.
Like a giant scythe, a broad chopping blade that had been hung from an overhead pipe still swayed even after lopping off a huge chunk of Wolski’s right shoulder and back.
Ramek’s voice came as a haunting echo. “You can hunt me or save your friend.”
The voice came from a maintenance tunnel leading to another part of the plant. Out of his mind with rage, Mason leapt up and charged into the tunnel. Six feet in, he came to a ladder leading down into the darkness. He could hear Ramek’s heavy footsteps just below him. But he could also hear Wolski’s gasps for air and moans of pain.
He hesitated at the top of the ladder. An overpowering voice from within screamed at him to forget Wolski and take Ramek. Go! You may never have another chance.
He felt profound shame at the very thought, and it overwhelmed the primal urge to exact revenge. With a deep growl, he fired his pistol three times into the black hole, then rushed back to his partner and friend.
The sight of Wolski sent Mason into a panic. Blood poured out. His shoulder, and a portion of his back and neck, had been cleaved from his body; muscle, bone, and sinew were exposed. Mason blew his whistle and kept blowing it, while he ripped off his overcoat and pressed it against Wolski’s wounds. Wolski convulsed from the shock and loss of blood.
Mason dropped his whistle and screamed for help. He didn’t know what else to do. Wolski’s nearly severed arm bled the most, but applying a tourniquet would do nothing to stop the flow. How long before anyone could find them in this maze of turns and dead ends?
Finally the sounds of voices and running footsteps echoed into the room. Relief flooded over Mason. He couldn’t tell from which direction they were coming, but he prayed the medics were with them.
A moment later, Becker, six German police, and the medics emerged from the same tunnel that Ramek had used to escape. Mason had never felt so happy to see Germans in uniform as he did now.
Mason whispered in Wolski’s ear, “Hang on, buddy. We’ve got help. Hold on.”
The two medics crouched by Wolski and pulled away Mason’s now blood-soaked coat. For the first time in years, Mason felt the urge to vomit. He heard Becker’s voice through the swirl of emotions and it suddenly calmed him.
Becker repeated the question. “How did this happen?”
Mason reminded himself that he was still in command and had to regain his self-control. He gestured at the swinging blade. “Ramek’s booby trap.”
The medics called for more light. Several flares popped and illuminated the room in orange and red. One of the German officers found Ramek’s lantern. He lit it and held it high for the medics.
“Ramek used that lantern to lure us in here,” Mason said to Becker. “We ran in like a couple of bugs to a flame.”
“Ramek was here?”
“He escaped through the same tunnel you used to get here.”
“Impossible. He’d barricaded the access to the storage building. The engineers had just cleared the barricade when we heard your gunfire. He couldn’t have escaped that way.”
“Have some of your men check out an alcove just inside the entrance. There’s a ladder leading down to a maintenance tunnel. That’s where Ramek went.”
Becker shouted a few commands, and four of his men ran into the tunnel. He called after them to be careful and watch for traps. Then he turned back to Mason. “It’s fortunate the two medics were with us. An engineer was injured while removing the barricade. I suspect Ramek booby-trapped that as well.”
“He’s probably left traps all over this place. Ramek’s fucking house of horrors.”
One of the medics said, “We haven’t got a spare stretcher. We’ll have to use your coat, sir.”
“Do it.”
The medics had wrapped Wolski in bandages. One of the medics held a bag of plasma high, with the tube attached to Wolski’s arm. Mason rushed over and helped lift Wolski onto the coat. Then he and three of Becker’s men each lifted a corner of the coat and heaved. They struggled with the weight and entered the tunnel. Mason could hear the four German officers below calling out as they searched the subtunnel.
As he helped carry the makeshift stretcher, Mason stared at his partner’s motionless body. He had forgotten his training, abandoned discipline, and run headlong into Ramek’s trap. And now his partner might die because of it. Only one thing now kept Mason from total collapse: his single-minded craving for revenge.
FORTY-FOUR
For Mason, hospital waiting rooms were the same all over the western world, and the 98th General Hospital was no different: hard wooden benches, linoleum floors, and the offensive miasma of disinfectant.
It was just after seven P.M. Mason had been there for two hours. He sat leaning forward, elbows on knees, trying to lose himself in the numbing study of linoleum tile seams and heel scuffmarks. He’d been alone in the room most of the time, except for a woman and her young son waiting for news about a major who’d been in a car accident.
In the last few minutes word had come that the DP camp raid, and subsequent shoot-out, was over. Ambulances were on their way with a dozen victims of gunshot wounds. Mason took some comfort in knowing that at least in the meantime, Wolski had been receiving the full attention of the staff of doctors.
Black shoes and a white hospital gown came into his field of view. An image of the meat-processing plant and Ramek standing in the doorway flashed in his mind. He shot to his feet. Ramek wasn’t hovering in the doorway, but Dr. Sutter was.
“Chief Warrant Officer Collins,” Dr. Sutter said.
Mason stepped up to the doctor. “How is he, Doc?”
“He’s stable but still in critical condition. We don’t have the expertise or facilities to perform the kinds of surgeries he’s going to require. . . .”
“Is he going to live?”
“I can’t guarantee anything at this point, but I remain optimistic.”
Mason let out a heavy sigh of relief.
“We were able to save the arm, but I doubt he will have use of it. He’s not out of the woods yet. My biggest concern is infection. He’s already running a high fever. If he makes it, we’ll keep him here for a few days until it’s safe to transfer him to Frankfurt. They may be able to repair the wounds better than we
can. Some of the surgeons there have experience treating soldiers with severe battle wounds. I’m afraid he’s in for months of painful reconstructive surgery and skin grafts. That was a shockingly brutal wound. I wager a smaller man would not have survived.”
Like me, Mason thought.
Through the plate-glass window Mason saw Anna. She looked at Mason with bloodshot eyes. Mason pointed her out to the doctor. “That’s Warrant Officer Wolski’s girlfriend. She’s the closest to family Wolski has at the moment.”
Dr. Sutter stepped out into the hallway and greeted Anna. He took her aside. Mason watched as the doctor repeated to Anna what he’d said to Mason. She shook, tears rolling down her cheeks. Mason wondered if she would still love Wolski even if he had ugly scars and a useless arm. He hoped with all his heart that she would.
Dr. Sutter left Anna alone and disappeared behind swinging double doors. Her arms were folded tight around her shoulders and she looked like a lost child. Mason went out into the hallway to talk to her.
She saw Mason approach. “You monster,” she breathed in German, pointing a finger at him. “It’s your fault. He’s in there because of you.”
Mason tried to urge her into the waiting room. “Anna, please—”
“Don’t touch me. I knew if he stayed with you something terrible would happen to him. He thought you were such a great man. Mason Collins, the great detective. And look what you did to him.”
“He did an incredibly heroic thing. He jumped in front of the blade to protect me—”
“Do you think that’s supposed to make me feel better? It should have been you. You should be in that operating room, not . . .”
She broke into tears and ran down the hallway.
Becker’s voice came from behind. “You must forgive her. She is young and feels her new life is at an end.”
Mason whirled around. “Jesus, you shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”
Ruins of War Page 32