Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(98)

They’re tougher than we are.





29

RAINY SCHULTERMAN—MAKTAR, TUNISIA, NORTH AFRICA

“Colonel Clay wants you, PDQ.” The news is delivered to Rainy by a lieutenant who is the spitting image of her brother, Aryeh, just with less muscle.

“Yes, sir.” PDQ—pretty damned quick—means now, so Rainy jumps up, grabs her notation pad, and fast-walks down a busy hallway past women at typewriters and men shuffling papers; past tea being brewed by the dark-skinned batman of the British liaison officer; and past two majors laughing loudly and smoking like chimneys.

In addition to Colonel Clay there are two men Rainy recognizes but has never met in his office, and one who openly grins at her.

She manages to avoid letting her mouth hang open and salutes properly.

“Sergeant Schulterman,” Captain Herkemeier says.

“Captain, it’s good to see you. I didn’t know you were in theater.”

“Just a week behind you, Sergeant.”

They shake hands while Colonel Clay looks on in disdain. He says, “I understand I have Captain Herkemeier to thank for your services here,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” Rainy says. Thus far she assumes this is just some sort of awkward reunion, though Colonel Clay would be the very last person she’d suspect of arranging any sort of social event.

“He speaks highly of you,” Clay allows, studying papers in his hands. “Says you come from criminal stock.”

“Sir, I—”

“Which I consider to be a plus,” the colonel goes on. “There are far too many well-bred gentlemen in military intelligence and not nearly enough aggressive Jewesses with a potential for criminality.”

The first part of that was a shot at the other two officers, both of whom Rainy knew to be from upper-crust families and schools. The second part is by all rights offensive and derogatory, but Rainy is sure it wasn’t intended that way, and also indifferent, because it sounds like the prelude to something worthwhile.

Still, she’s a bit at a loss for how to respond so she falls back on the always reliable, “Yes, sir.”

“Captain, proceed.”

Captain Herkemeier has a map, which he unfolds and spreads across the colonel’s desk. All five of them form a circle, heads down, eyes searching.

“My division is in full retreat, getting hit hard, hoping to dig in and make a stand here.” The captain taps the map and they all nod. “But we picked up some radio chatter from the enemy; we didn’t have any German speakers on the radio, but I speak some Italian.”

Rainy blinks, and Herkemeier notices. “Yes, Sergeant, Herkemeier is a German name, but my father never spoke it, while my mother is an Italian immigrant.”

“Yes, yes,” the colonel interjects impatiently.

“The short of it is that I sent what we had to HQ, where I understand Sergeant Schulterman was able to make some sense of it. We got some triangulation on the signal, not very good, unreliable frankly, but nevertheless, we have a working theory.”

“A supply column,” Rainy said. “Probably crossing open desert. A rendezvous with some element of the German armored thrust.”

The colonel’s eyebrows shake hands with each other again at that, and the other men equally stare in open disbelief, all but Herkemeier, who winks at Rainy.

“Where would you guess that rendezvous would take place, Sergeant?”

It’s a challenge, a sign of his confidence in her. He is showing off his star pupil.

Rainy takes several minutes to study the map, muttering to herself as if no one else is in the room. “He’ll send his flanking force right across open desert, this wadi here. German supply depot . . . this road . . . say they make thirty miles an hour . . .” She taps the map. “The two roads intersect here . . . crossroads . . . middle of nowhere . . .” Rainy shrugs and steps back, suddenly self-conscious.

Captain Herkemeier is keeping a straight face, and anyway it’s Colonel Clay’s reaction that matters.

The major clears his throat and gets a nod. “Sir, we have nothing to put up against that armored column. If we had air cover we might be able to intercept the supply column, and that would likely stop ’em dead in their tracks. But we have nothing in the area but a few scattered elements.”

Now it is the lieutenant’s turn to clear his throat—very polite, very upper-crust, Rainy thinks, very much not the aggressive Jewess with criminal tendencies. “Sir, there’s a small force. Two platoons that were sent in to buttress a British commando mission. The commandos have been beaten up pretty badly, and what’s left of them are heading out cross-country to try to circle back to the beach, but they last saw our two platoons on this road, heading back toward Sidi Bouzid, which means they’ll most likely run right into the Kraut main force.” He shakes his head doubtfully. “They aren’t much, but if the Brits are right, they’re within ten miles, give or take.”

“Who’s in command?” Colonel Clay asks.

“A Lieutenant Liefer and a Lieutenant Helder. I believe Liefer is senior, so with the Tommies out of the picture, she’d be in command. But, Colonel, we have no radio contact. Their set must have been knocked out.”

“We could send someone,” the major says, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “A German speaker with a radio might just make it; he could stay in touch and monitor any continuing chatter.”