"Robert McCammon - The Wolfs Hour" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

moment. Where had the dog gone? Out into the desert, of course. But why had it not come in to nose
amid the cans like the others? Well, it was ridiculous to waste time thinking about. Rommel had sent him
here for information and that’s what he planned to take back to Panzer Army headquarters. “Nothing’s
wrong except I have stomach ulcers, a heat rash on my neck, and I long to see snow before I go mad,”
Voigt said as he stepped into the tent and the flap fell shut behind him.
Voigt stood at the table with Stummer, Major Klinhurst, and the other two battalion officers. His flinty
blue eyes scanned the maps. They showed the cruel, gulley-slashed desert between Point 169, the small
ridge he’d passed over, and the British fortifications. Inked-in red circles indicated mine fields, and blue
squares stood for the many defensive boxes, studded with barbed wire and machine guns, that would
have to be overcome on the drive eastward. The maps also showed, in black lines and squares, where
the German troops and tanks were positioned. On each map was the recon battalion’s official rubber
stamp.
Voigt took off his flat-brimmed cap, wiped the sweat from his face with a well-used handkerchief,
and studied the maps. He was a big, broad-shouldered man whose fair skin had hardened to burnished
leather. He had blond hair with swirls of gray at the temples, his thick eyebrows almost completely gray.
“I assume these are up-to-the-minute?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. The last patrol came in twenty minutes ago.”
Voigt grunted noncommittally, sensing that Stummer was waiting for a compliment on his battalion’s
thorough reconnaissance of the mine fields. “I don’t have much time. Field Marshal Rommel is waiting.
What are your recommendations?”
Stummer was disappointed that his battalion’s work wasn’t recognized. It had been hard and heavy
the past two days and nights, searching for a hole in the British fortifications. He and his men might have
been on the edge of the world, for all the desolation around them. “Here.” He picked up a pencil and
tapped one of the maps. “We believe the easiest way through would be in this area, just south of
Ruweisat Ridge. The mine fields are light, and you can see there’s a gap in the field of fire between these
two boxes.” He touched two blue squares. “A concentrated effort might easily punch a hole through.”
“Major,” Voigt said wearily, “nothing in this damned desert is easy. If we don’t get the petrol and
ammunition we need, we’re going to be on foot throwing rocks before the week’s over. Fold the maps
for me.”
One of the junior officers began to do so. Voigt unzipped his satchel and put the maps in them. Then
he zipped up the satchel, wiped the sweat off his face, and put on his cap. Now for the flight back to
Rommel’s command post, and for the rest of the night there would be discussions, briefings, and a
movement of troops, tanks, and supplies to the areas Rommel had decided to attack. Without these
maps the field marshal’s decision would be nothing more than a toss of the dice.
The satchel now had a satisfying weight. “I’m sure the field marshal would want me to say that you’ve
done a remarkable job, Major,” Voigt finally said. Stummer looked pleased. “We’ll all toast the success
of Panzer Army Africa on the banks of the Nile. Heil Hitler.” Voigt raised his hand quickly, and the
others—all except Klinhurst, who made no bones about his distaste for the party—responded in kind.
Then the meeting was over, and Voigt turned away from the table and walked briskly out of the tent
toward the waiting car. The driver was already there to open the door, and Major Stummer came out to
see Voigt off.
Voigt was a few strides from the car when he caught a quick movement to his right.
His head swiveled in that direction, and at once his legs turned to jelly.
Less than an arm’s length away was a black dog with green eyes. It had evidently darted around from
the tent’s other side and had come up on him so fast that neither the driver nor Stummer had time to
react. The black beast was not like the other starving wild dogs; it was as big as a bull mastiff, almost two
and a half feet tall at the shoulder, and muscles, like bunches of piano wires, rippled along its back and
haunches. Its ears were laid flat along its sleek-haired skull, and its eyes were as bright as green signal
lamps. They stared up forcefully into Voigt’s face, and in them the German officer recognized a killer’s
intelligence.