Five Past Midnight - James Thayer [159]
General Eberhardt brought up his wristwatch, close to his mask's eyepieces. The fires were spreading. Two sofas were burning, and more of the rug. Eberhardt had no idea whether the bombing run had caused the smoke and fires, or whether someone in the generator-ventilator room had done some mischief. He and the guard captain could wait another two or three minutes before deciding whether to evacuate the bunker.
And hope soared within the general. Perhaps the American had failed. Perhaps this was Jack Cray's attempt to flush the Führer from the bunker, and this fire and smoke were the worst Jack Cray could do. Fire was spreading, but it might be contained. The American hadn't chased the Führer to the surface yet. Not yet.
24
BLOOD CAME AWAY with the receiver when TeNo Captain Klaus Dreesen lowered the telephone. A gash along his temple was spilling blood. A splinter from the wall, he guessed hazily. Dreesen heard shouts from his squad members, then a muffled scream from one of them trapped in back of the building. He pressed his temple below the wound, trying to bring his thoughts together. Blood dribbled onto his fingers.
The captain's Mauerstrasse building was the headquarters of the Technical Emergency Corps unit that was to respond to an emergency in the Führerbunker. His unit was held in reserve for just such a summons.
Twelve months of training for this moment, for a real emergency in the bunker, and all Dreesen could think of was how much his goddamn head hurt. And then, after the alarm had sounded, the Führerbunker guard captain had telephoned to yell at him, as if Dreesen needed to be told his job. Dizzy and staggering, he turned toward the ruin.
He and his men were already in uniform, as they were during each air raid. The bombs had sounded like they were landing blocks away, but one must have dropped late from a bomb bay, and hit the building next door to the north with a force that blew in the squadron's headquarters wall and dropped much of the second floor onto the ground floor. Half the building was in ruin, with dust and smoke still billowing and limbers still swinging. A pipe had broken, and water rushed across the concrete floor. Fire was working on a pile of wood fragments that had a moment before been lockers, and two of Dreesen's men were putting it out with pump extinguishers. A wall clock was in pieces on the floor, the face lying on its scrambled springs. The bomb had shredded several TeNo uniforms that had been hanging near the lockers, and mangled strips of white herringbone fabric were sprinkled across the room.
One of Dreesen's men sat on the hoses, his mouth open, blood flowing from an ear. Another TeNo member searched for his spectacles in a pile of boots, groaning softly, one arm hanging limp and useless. Beams hung through the ceiling, and several were hanging down almost as far as the trucks. A stack of portable street barricades had been tossed together with half a dozen pole stretchers. Chunks of the ceiling were still falling.
Even so, even in the ruin, the months of drills began to pay off. His crew was responding to the bells, was emerging from the smoke and rubble, some donning their masks, others putting on tool belts, some carrying pry bars and axes, some limping, others grimacing against injuries. A squad member pulled on the chain to raise the door. Because of the bombing run, it was as smoky outside as in. Another crewman pushed rubble from the top of the pumper, then climbed in and started the engine. A second vehicle—the generator truck—cranked into life. Two TeNo men were already in the cab. Captain Dreesen climbed onto the running board.
The trucks pulled onto Mauerstrasse. Curtains of smoke rose and fell. Debris was scattered