"Hey shoo! Hey!
"Hurry up! Come on!"
Through the hazy moonlight, one could vaguely see countless silhouettes desperately waving the shovels in their hands in a huge deep pit. Their clothes were covered in dust, and the sweat and dust on their faces drew a black mark on their cheeks. But they didn't care to wipe it off, shoveling the soil they dug out into the iron buckets and woven baskets on the side. Every full bucket was pulled up and dumped into a wheelbarrow by the people on top, while some people dashed towards the river not far away pushing the wheelbarrow at a rapid pace, dumping the soil into the river and letting the river wash it away.
Not long afterward, someone at the edge of the pit dangled a rope measure and asked. "How many meters?"
"Fifteen meters!"
"Ouch mom!"
"I'm exhausted!"
The group of big men in the pit were almost simultaneously paralyzed on the ground, huffing and puffing. These days they were doing nothing but digging pits. During the day, they spread camouflage nets over the pit to dig secretly, and at night they didn't dare to light up the lamps, so they could only dig in the dark by the light of the moon.
Today finally finished digging.
After resting for a while, one of them stood up. "Go up, the task is not yet complete."
Dozens of people climbed out of the large pit along the rope ladder. "Everyone has worked hard. Fifteen minutes to go, prepare the conveyor belt."
At this time, ten kilometers away from the curve, a train was whimpering and slowing in the distance. The curves here were simply too steep, and a slightly faster train speed would risk overturning the train. Just after the locomotive passed the curve, the two sides of the railroad violently sprang up and a sturdy black shadow rushed towards the train, and with a glare of the feet, climbed onto the train.
If Wilhelm was there, he would have exclaimed that he had seen the German version of the railroad guerrillas.
Poof! Poof! Poof!
Three slight muffled sounds later the driver, co-driver and maintenance man in the locomotive cab fell helplessly to the ground before they could react.
The second and third compartments were fuel compartments (coal and water). Carefully pulling open the door of the fourth compartment, I looked in through the doorway and saw a single snoring Soviet soldier, not even a guard.
In fact, this can't be blamed on them. From the time they received the cargo in Spain, their nerves were always on high alert. Now that they had finally entered the Soviet Union and would be able to reach Moscow in a few hours, their nerves couldn't help but relax. The fatigue accumulated over the past few days could not be stopped as they relaxed.
Until the doors of the car were all pulled open, there was no one awake.
Four M3 sub-machine guns, which look like lubricating oil guns, are pointing at the thirty-odd sleeping soldiers.
"Three, two, one!"
"Burst!" The four gun muzzles simultaneously spewed out flames.
Each carriage was raked with four special soldiers, and almost in an instant this army escorting the gold was completely wiped out.
The special forces member in the lead casually threw the M3 submachine gun that had run out of bullets onto the aisle, drew a Colt M1911A1 pistol from his waist, and walked forward, adding a bullet to any soldier who was still groaning.
After emptying a magazine he exclaimed as he switched to a new one. "Che, those Yanks can make a pistol like that, it feels pretty good in the hand."
The team member following him casually picked up on this. "I would have preferred the P38."
The last one admonished with displeasure. "Idiots, who told you guys to speak German? What if any of these guys are alive? Put another bullet in each man's head, make sure nothing goes wrong!"
"Yes!"
In the fifth compartment, a burly man with a deep scar on his face said in impeccably pure English. "I presume you are Mr. Major General Alexander Mikhailovich Orlov? Or should I call Mr. Blackstone, the representative of the Bank of America?" This scar-face, was none other than Otto. Skorzine.
"You, what are you guys?!!! What do you want?!" A pale-faced Orlov couldn't understand what kind of people were so bold as to openly rob on Soviet soil?
A teasing smile appeared on Skorzine's face and he owed a slight debt. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am personally appointed by the President of the United States of America, Mr. Franklin D. Roosevelt, to retrieve the gold that belongs to the United States of America. Mr. Orlov is truly a nobleman. Wasn't your mission to transport the gold belonging to the Bank of America to England for deposit? What's the matter, Mr. Orlov? Did you get lost? And you sent it to the Soviet Union? Comrade Stalin wouldn't even let you leave a receipt, I think he wanted to keep the gold all to himself, didn't he?"
Orlov's face went white, and the corners of his mouth twitched uncontrollably. His mission this time was a direct assignment from Stalin, who had personally instructed him that no matter how much the Spaniards asked him for a receipt, he had to refuse it, refuse any signatures on it. He persuaded the Spanish government to give him a letter of attestation to present when he crossed the various barriers. On the letter of attestation, Orlov became a representative of the Bank of the United States called Blackstone, and shipped the gold belonging to the Bank of the United States to England for safekeeping in lieu of deposit.
How did these people know so well?
But then he saw Skorzine look at his watch. "You contact every thirty minutes to ensure security, right? Ten minutes to go, what's the security code for this one?"
Knowing even that? Orlov's heart felt as if it had fallen into an ice hole. Could it be that there was a traitor inside Moscow? And this traitor must not be of a low rank, at least involved in this plan to transport the gold.
Skorzine drew a Colt M1911A1 pistol from its holster and pointed it at the correspondent, who was also trembling at the side. "What's the security code?"
The correspondent spoke shiveringly. "Ice."
Skorzine's gun was pointed at Orlov again. "Oh, is that so? Mr. Orlov?"
"..." Orlov hesitated!
Because the correspondent had lied. "Ice" was the last security code, and if a duplicate security code was sent, then the brass would know something was wrong. For a moment he considered whether to give up the real security code in exchange for a chance to live. This guy was not a tough guy who was willing to die, and he eventually defected to the United States in the original time and space.
Seeing a look of hesitation flash across Orlov's face, the seemingly skinny communicator lunged at the radio. As if in slow motion, just as the tip of the correspondent's finger touched the radio, a bullet fired from the Colt accurately drilled into his temple.
Looking at the correspondent, who fell to the side with a resigned face, Skorzine tsked and sighed. "Just teasing you guys." After saying that, he turned his head and asked the team member next to him. "What was the security code again this time?"
The team member pulled a pamphlet out of his pocket and flipped through a few pages before returning. "This time it's 'Polar Bear'. 'Ice' was the security code last time."
Orlov collapsed completely, paralyzed helplessly on the floor, muttering and repeating under his breath. "How can this be, how can this be? How can this be?!" These people even had a clear grasp of the security code, so there was definitely no use in keeping himself, it seemed like he was dead today.
Skorzine looked strangely at Orlov, whose eyes were lax and whose mouth kept repeating those two sentences, and ended his confusion with a single shot.
At that moment, accompanied by a piercing whistle, the train pulled down its brakes and slowly came to a stop.
Dozens of people who had been waiting at the edge of the big pit rushed to the freight cars in a swarm.
"Wow!" The door of the carriage was pulled open from the inside, and the pungent smell of blood hit his nose. The man who opened the door loudly urged. "Hurry, hurry, we don't have time, hurry and unload!"
A group of people quickly set up a conveyor belt that had already been prepared, started the motor and then nimbly climbed onto the car, and began to move the wooden crates that had been neatly stacked in the car onto the conveyor belt. And under the car next to each conveyor belt also guarded two people, every time a dozen boxes of gold fell down, then move the conveyor belt, lest the boxes in the big pit are piled up to one place.
"Pull two men up from those villagers. Be able-bodied." There was a small village a kilometer away with a dozen or so families. In order not to leak out, they had to tie up all those villagers. Luckily, this place was really rare, so even if all these people disappeared, no one would notice.
Soon there were two strong villagers pressed onto the train, and Skorzine didn't say anything, drew out the Soviet correspondent's sidearm, and killed the two villagers with a volley of shots.
The team member next to him couldn't help but wonder. "Captain, what are you doing?"
A smug look appeared on Skorzine's face. "It's called obfuscation. Hang your submachine gun on this villager." With that, he bent down and took hold of Orlov's collar, and with a strong effort, threw the body straight into the head of the big pit.
It only took fifteen minutes for the gold-filled crates from several wagons to have all fallen into the big pit.
In the front of the wagon, Skorzine was exhorting his crew. "There's a town thirty kilometers ahead. The train won't stop there in the transportation plan, just drive straight through. Twenty kilometers after the town the train will pass a cliff. There will be a warning light on the side of the road to slow down, so when you see it, increase the speed to the maximum and jump off the train. Got it? The train will lose control and go over the cliff. After that you go north with the correspondent about five kilometers and you'll find a railroad."
The team member nodded heavily and said. "Understood. I've memorized all of this in my mind a long time ago."
Skorzine patted him on the shoulder. "That's good, don't forget our identity, in case of danger never let the enemy take us alive." After saying that, he jumped off the train and watched as the train slowly started and moved forward.
Everything was thrown into the large pit. The motor, the conveyor belt, and even the dozens of corpses of the villagers were pushed in in one fell swoop. But the big pit was still more than three meters deep. But it was dug this deep on purpose.
"Hurry up and fill in the soil, tamping every half meter!"
There wasn't any heavy equipment like road rollers here. The special forces could only use the most primitive methods, taking the thick logs that hadn't had time to split in the village or finding a boulder, tying them up with a rope, and letting them fall freely to tamp the ground after a few people threw them up with force.
They were busy until dawn, and then they wiped out all the traces, as if nothing had happened here.
Rumble!
Looking at the dark clouds that were getting thicker and thicker in the sky, an excited smile appeared on Skorzine's face. "Haha, it looks like this rain will not be small. It's truly God's blessing on Germany!" Although they had eliminated as many traces of the scene as possible, when they encountered someone with a heart to look carefully, they would still find some cracks.
Now it was good, this heavy rain would wash away the last traces as well, leaving no clues behind!