His hard-earned training kicked in and Riordan collected himself in an instant. “Yes, you’re absolutely right, René. Thank you, my friend. I’ll sneak in after nightfall and we’ll take it from there.”
“Oui. Now hurry; they will be here soonest.”
Riordan mounted the motorcycle, noted that it carried water, rations, even a sleeping bag. He snapped the cover of his holster shut, grabbed the goggles hanging off the handlebars and pulled them on.
“René, I’ll be back.” The engine caught on the first kick and he accelerated off through the war machines and soldiers, heading for the rear. If he had glanced in the mirror, he would have seen René wave in farewell. But he only had eyes for the road ahead.
62
Lieutenant Colonel Janeki pondered the report from the only noncommissioned officer to survive the assault on the mountain. “How many rounds do we have for the cannon?”
“Approximately three hundred shells remaining, Colonel,” Major Brodski said.
“This is the only enemy strongpoint before Chena, is it not?”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“We cannot advance with this pocket of rebellion and potential assassination at our backs. Use half of the remaining ammunition; shell that damned mountainside until every boulder is reduced to sand.”
Major Brodski saluted and turned to the waiting staff officers. In moments the first rounds whistled over and impacted the mountain. The barrage settled into a constant cacophony of high explosives.
“Colonel, there is the matter of the letter.”
“What letter is that, Leonid?”
“The letter that accuses Major Riordan of murdering a Russian officer.”
“Have you been able to find him?”
“I haven’t heard back from the provost marshal, Colonel. I anticipate word at any moment.”
A huge cloud rose from beneath the rain of destruction on the mountainside. Janeki peered up where the enemy had chosen to make their stand and tried to fathom their decision. A scout car stopped near him and two MPs stepped out with a mercenary captain between them.
Both MPs saluted and the sergeant reported. “Colonel Janeki, this is Captain Flérs of the—”
“I know who he’s with,” Janeki said crisply. “What about him?”
“He was observed aiding the escape of Major Riordan, sir.”
Janeki turned cold eyes on the captain. “Captain Flérs, how did Riordan know he was being sought by our provost marshal?”
“I told him, Colonel.”
“You are his second-in-command, Captain Flérs?”
“Oui. For the past three years I have had that honor.”
“So there is honor among thieves and murderers?”
“We are neither of those things.” Captain Flérs kept his tone conversational but Janeki detected a flash in the man’s eyes that promised retribution. “We are professional soldiers for hire. We are very good at our profession and have enjoyed many successes.”
“Do you consider mass murder a ‘success’?”
“I do not know what you speak of, Colonel.”
“Three, four days ago, did your brigands not kill every man in a Russian Army scout unit in order to rob them and steal their vehicles?”
Janeki saw the fleeting expression of the guilty flash across the Frenchman’s face. Flérs blinked and stared at Janeki.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, Colonel. We did no such—”
“Take him out and shoot him!” Janeki bellowed, startling everyone in the area.
Two troopers had the presence of mind to grab the stunned Captain Flérs.
“Sir?” the MP sergeant said. “You want him shot, now?”
“Yes. He’s a lying French weasel who abetted the murder of scores of Russian soldiers and—”
“Wait!” Captain René Flérs’ practiced nonchalance fled from his face and fear crawled from every pore. “I had nothing to do with it, I swear.” Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and he blinked through them.
“The majeur listens to no one,” he said with a catch in his voice. “He makes all le réglement du jeu—”
“Speak English or Russian,” Janeki snapped.
“Sorry,” Flérs said with a sniff. “He makes all the rule of the games. He thinks he is some sort of avenging Irish god.”
“What does Irish have to do with it?”
“Mon dieu, where would one start?” Flérs threw his hands in the air, finally breaking the MPs’ grips. His eyes widened even further.
“Only to suggest a question and he begins the lecture! The inhumanity of the British against the Irish is all he can speak of. And the Czar he is cousin to the King of England.”
Janeki blanched. “Do you mean the man is an anarchist?”
A Gallic shrug from Flérs. “The case can be made, I’m afraid.”
Janeki turned to the provost marshal, a senior lieutenant promoted from the ranks for heroism. “Place this man in solitary confinement; he is to speak to no one. Very carefully isolate the mercenary troops, disarm them, and place them under arrest.”
“Colonel, we are in the middle of a battle. I have but ten men to police this regiment now, and there are over a hundred mercenaries.”
“They will listen to me,” Captain Flérs said in his executive officer voice. “They will fight for you.”
“They murdered Russian soldiers! You didn’t give them a chance to fight for their lives—”
“But you need us!” Flérs cried out, his face twisted in fear and supplication.
Janeki hesitated, thought for a moment. “All right; call your men together. Sergeant, you go with him.”
“Thank you, mon Colonel. You will not regret this.”
The men walked away toward the majority of the mercenaries waiting to go into battle.
Janeki stepped closer to his provost marshal and put his mouth within inches of the man’s ear: “Lieutenant Kubitski, here’s what I want you to do.”
63
Battle of Delta
In a pocket between three boulders, Magda hugged the heaving earth as the salvos impacted around her. She and her squad had dropped Russians all the way down the slope. She stopped her people when they were within three hundred meters of the road and waved them back toward the Dená lines.
Halfway up, the mountain erupted in front of them. The first shells smashed four of her people into gory atoms and she screamed for the remaining troops to take cover. Armageddon rolled over them.
Each time a shell landed, the ground and rocks sprang into the air, hitting her, pummeling her, striking at her from directions she could not anticipate. It was a huge club of sounds, repeating over and over and over. The noise and concussion filled her soul with abject terror.
She looked around at her team, watching the flesh on their faces shake, their eyes going bright as if ready to cry, blood draining from faces leaving them pale as diluted tea. Her people looked older, flabby, and the only sounds she heard between the smashing shells were cries of prayer, pain, the rattle of teeth, and whimpering that reminded her of a badly injured dog.
As the barrage continued, the members of her team found shelter that, true or false, promised protection, and huddled where they could. The very earth proved to be their enemy as well as their salvation. Suddenly the world grew quiet and she suspected a trap.
After a full minute she raised her head and looked around.
“Sergeant Laughlin!” she yelled. Her voice sounded faint in her own ears.