The crew cheered again. Larsson nodded, looking at the luminescent dial of the mechanical watch he'd found. Just before sunset-though with this overcast, it was hard to tell; it was definitely getting dark, though.
He looked towards the castle-and saw only mud, because he certainly wasn't going to risk his life for a gesture.
"When you want to set a man up for a punch in the face, get someone to kick him in the ass," he muttered to the dirt.
Thanks for getting Astrid off to that bunch of Wiccans, Mike, he thought, not caring to share the thought even with the wall of his trench. Just the thing to keep her fascinated.
With a wrench like a hand reaching into his chest and clutching:
And take care of Pam and my kids, you hear? My strong and beautiful kids. Christ, why did it take a disaster to realize how great they are?
The trail was doubly dark, with the overcast night and the branches overhead. It smelled cold, and wet as well-it hadn't started raining yet, but the wind from the west had a raw dampness to it, a hint of storms to come. They were nearly a thousand feet above the castle at Echo Creek, and the air was colder here, closer to the approaching winter.
Mike Havel grinned to himself in the darkness, an expression that had little mirth in it, placing each foot carefully on rock and damp earth.
Which means we better get this done soon, if it's to be done at all, or we winter at Pendleton. Which would be goddamned chancy for half a dozen reasons.
He walked slowly but quietly, listening to the quick panting of the burdened men ahead-locals from the CORA force, hunters who knew the deer-tracks over these hills as well as their home-acres. He didn't, and neither did Sam Aylward, but they moved almost as easily, instinct and the faint reflected light and the whispering of air through trees and around rocks giving them clues enough. Both were dressed alike, in loose dark clothes and boots and knit caps and dark leather gloves; Havel had his sword across his back with the hilt ready over his left shoulder, and his bow case and quiver slanting to the right.
Aylward had a take-down longbow resting in two pieces beside his arrows, all muffled so that they wouldn't rattle and under a buckled cap. Neither bore armor, besides buckler or targe.
"Wish we could have practiced this more," the Englishman grumbled softly.
They didn't need to keep absolute silence, but quietness was a habit in circumstances like this.
"Too much chance they'd have heard about it," Havel answered in the same tone-not a whisper, which actually traveled further than a soft conversational voice. "That camp leaks like a sieve. Hell, I didn't tell you what I had in mind, until I learned you'd done a lot of hang gliding, did I?"
A soft chuckle. "Run me down on the others," he said. "I presume they're the best-or I bloody well hope so."
"They're the best who happened to have the necessary experience; it's not a sport your ordinary Idaho plowboy takes up," Havel said. "Pam's cold death with a sword, and she's learned the rest of the business very fast. Eric and Signe are pretty good, they've had seven months hard practice and they're natural athletes, and I've seen them both in real action. Good nerves and good muga, both of them, and coming along fast."
Aylward nodded, unseen in the darkness. Muga was a term they were both familiar with from unarmed-combat training; it meant being aware of everything around you as a single interacting whole.
And I wish to hell Signe was knocked up and off the A-list for now; we're going to be married soon, for Christ's sake, he thought, then pushed it away with a swift mental effort.
Can't afford to get worked up about that, or I'll make mistakes and get us killed. Christ Jesus, that's likely enough anyhow!
There was a little amusement in the Englishman's voice: "And this is probably the last chance you'll get to go off on your own, away from the paperwork and the all those cloudy decisions, eh? Corporal to general-and if you knew how hard I'd fought to keep the same bloody thing from happening: "
Mike shrugged. "Maybe not. Things are different now. No Pentagon, no brass."
And how. There's probably nothing but bands of Eaters haunting the Pentagon, he thought. Sort of. what did Greenberg call it? A literalized metaphor?
He'd loathed the place and the city it was located in at long distance every day of both hitches.
Idly: I wonder what happened to the President? He'd never liked the man much. Probably the Secret Service got him out, and he's still running things. in about a hundred square miles around Camp David, maybe.
He went on aloud: "Hell, what was that Greek king, the one who got all the way to India-"
"Alexander the Great?"
"Yeah. Always the first one in: here we are."
The hunters had brought them to the clearing on the crest of Echo Mountain, and carried the hang gliders as well, bearing them lengthwise up the narrow trail. Aylward went forward to check them over, using a tiny metal lantern with a candle within and a moveable shutter. Havel did his own examination, and then went the other way, up the sloping surface of the open space until he reached the steep up-curled lip facing southeast.
That made a natural slope to lie on with only his head above it, until all the others had gathered behind him. He used the time to see what could be seen of the castle, matching it to the detailed maps he'd memorized.
There was more light over there than you'd expect; he hadn't seen anything like the actinic glare of the searchlight since before the change. The beam flicked out, traversing slowly back and forth along the parapet.
"Puts them in the limelight, doesn't it?" Signe said from his left.
Havel grinned in the darkness. Literally in the limelight; lime burning in a stream of compressed air, with a big curved mirror behind it. That was what they'd used in theaters to light the stage, before electricity. His father-in-law's education was coming in really useful.
"Don't look at it," he said, turning to repeat the order on the other side. "It's supposed to blind them, not us. All right, now take a good look at that tower. Match what you're seeing to the maps you studied."
He did himself. The enemy had obligingly put torches all along the palisade of their motte-and-bailey castle, which would give them a better view of the first ten yards and kill their chances of seeing anything beyond that, even without the searchlight stabbing into their eyes.
"Amateurs," Aylward muttered.
Havel nodded; the best way to see in the dark, barring night-sight goggles, was to get out in the dark, well away from any source of light. It was a lot easier to see into an illuminated area than out of it. If he'd been in charge of that fort, he'd have killed every light, and had a mesh of scouts lying out in the darkness and damn the cost. The CORA men hadn't been able to threaten the fort, or get much past it: but they had been able to discourage the garrison from walking around after sunset.
The torches outlined a round-shouldered rectangle with Highway 20 running through it from east to west. There were buildings on either side of the roadway, and the circular cone of the motte halfway between the corner and the gatehouse. Obligingly, the Protector's men had a big iron basket full of pinewood burning on top of the tower.
"Everybody satisfied they know where they're going?" Mike said, waiting for the nods.
Aylward's had an edge in it: We should have practiced this more, chum.
Havel's reply: We should have, but we couldn't. Pray hard.
"There's a nice updraft over the lip of this cliff and we've got better than fifteen hundred feet of height on the target, so there's not going to be any problem with that. Come at the tower from the west, with a bit of height to spare. If you miss, just keep going-we've got people out there in the ground between our lines and the creek. And do not-I say this twice-do not launch until I'm down and give the signal."